


Cold Wind from Teksa'corani

by Salchat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fanart, Friendship, Gen, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Kissing, Mining adventure, Murder Mystery, Original Characters - Freeform, Original theme music, Outlaws, Post-Canon, Relationships are secondary to the plot, Romance, Snow, Social oppression, Stagecoach, Strong Female Characters, Train Robbery, Western, Wraith (Stargate), alien animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 113,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: It’s all change on Atlantis as the Stargate project is declassified, but before Colonel John Sheppard and Dr Rodney McKay can join the media circus, they are kidnapped and abandoned on a Wraith-controlled planet.Join them for a tale of adventure, hardship and romance as they journey across a world packed with outlaws, intrigue and dark deeds!“Have we dropped into a Western?”“I reckon so, Sundance.”“I’mButch.You’rethe Sundance Kid.”All chapters complete and ready to be posted on Tuesdays and Fridays, with art for each chapter and even a theme song!
Relationships: Jennifer Keller/Rodney McKay, John Sheppard/Original Female Character(s), Rodney McKay & John Sheppard, Rodney McKay/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art and music for 'Cold Wind from Teksa'corani'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28671879) by [Salchat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat). 



> Dear Readers,
> 
> This story comes to you in a spirit of celebration rather than consolation - my latest scan result was clear, so I have another three months to play and write and draw! 
> 
> I started writing Cold Wind for my Nanowrimo project, but it significantly outgrew my fifty-thousand word target. I have tried to pack in as much excitement as I could; to put our heroes through physical and emotional turmoil and then, as always, make them better at the end. Stories have a great ability to help us deal with our own lives - I hope my tale gives you a break from yours.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to my friendly and helpful betas, Eos, Janeishly and Pebbles1971, but particularly to Eos who makes me fill in all the little plot holes and sums up my characters’ motivations better than I do!
> 
> There will be art for every chapter embedded in the story, but I'll post larger versions as a separate work. Look out for some lively pictures, based on pulp art illustrations!
> 
> Best wishes for happy reading,
> 
> Sally

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50814277456/in/dateposted-public/)

  
[Click here for theme music](https://youtu.be/ojeBiS4LUG0)  


Richard Woolsey, civilian leader of the Atlantis expedition to the Pegasus Galaxy, watched the stunned expressions on the faces of his Military Commander and Chief Science Officer. He had expected them to be surprised, even shocked, and had gone so far as to predict, accurately as it turned out, how their emotions might be displayed. 

Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard remained virtually immobile, his gaze fixed somewhere below the level of Richard’s desk, his black brows frowning heavily, his mouth thinned where his lower lip was drawn in and gripped tightly between his teeth. But where his tension manifested in stillness, his companion burst into agitated speech and movement.

“Well, yes, we knew it was coming eventually, but this is… this is… Let’s just say it’s pretty inconvenient.” Dr Rodney McKay bounced to his feet and paced twitchily, back and forth in front of the desk, hands waving in their characteristic manner. “I have work, important work here. Who are they expecting to take over?”

“Dr Zelenka is more than -”

“Yes, Radek can manage, I suppose. And at least power isn’t a problem, because I guarantee you he’ll be running to the Gate, demanding my presence every five minutes. Head of the Homeworld Science Authority? What does that even mean? Is that really an international role? It sounds more like something you’d take on in a doomed attempt to look impressive in your yearbook.”

“An international committee has been established -”

“Yes, yes, you said. Homeworld Science Authority, indeed. Can’t Sam Carter do that?”

“Colonel Carter will be heading the SGC.”

“Really? Well, I suppose that makes sense with her field experience.” Rodney stuck his hands in his pockets but they quickly broke out and busied themselves with a flurry of movement and a concluding finger snap. “I can publish. I can publish, right? My work? My findings?”

“Yes, I believe that will now be possible.”

“Mmm.” The scientist's face was a glow of Nobel dreams. He rocked jauntily on his toes.

The silent occupant of the office shifted in his seat.

“Colonel?” Richard prompted.

A heavy sigh and reluctant eyes met his, their thoughts shielded, the changeable hazel a flat, shadowed black. “So my role’s gonna be, what? Some kinda PR thing?” His lip curled with distaste.

“Initially, yes. In fact, we’ll all need to do our part in that respect to begin with.” Richard leant back in his chair and regarded the two men over his steepled fingers. “As you can imagine, there will be a certain amount of confusion, perhaps even unrest, when the situation is first disclosed.” Rodney snorted loudly. Richard acknowledged this with a small smile. “Yes, declassification will almost certainly change the global political situation overnight along with, in all likelihood, the attitudes of the entire population of the planet. The governments of the world are keen to avoid panic, of course and so they will need us all, as key players, to be out there in the public eye, to be seen to be approachable, normal figures, to reassure the public at large that, well, that life goes on as usual, even when one’s everyday life and career is centred on the existence of extra-terrestrial life.”

“So, what, speeches, interviews, talk shows?” Rodney rubbed his hands together. “Scores will be settled!” he said with relish. It was John’s turn to snort. “It’s not really your scene, is it, Sheppard? Being in the limelight?”

John shrugged and grimaced. “Not really.”

“Well, look on the bright side. As the handsome hero of the hour, women’ll flock to you like bees around a honey-pot.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He looked up from the floor at his friend. “You ‘n’ Keller’ll be able to settle down. Do the whole white picket fence thing.”

“Yes. Yes, we will, won’t we?” Rodney smiled, but, to Richard’s eyes, that crooked smile held a slight tinge of panic.

“Well, gentlemen, you know the situation. Of course, nothing will happen immediately, but we need to begin our preparations for handover.”

“You’ll be leaving too?” The Colonel looked concerned. “What about Teyla? Ronon? Everyone else?”

“My role hasn’t been decided yet. It’s possible that I’ll return here once declassification has occurred. Teyla and Ronon will almost certainly be required on Earth for a time, to represent the humans of the Pegasus galaxy. A purely voluntary role, of course.”

“They’ll do it,” said Rodney. “Or Teyla will, anyways, for the retail opportunities alone.”

“Ronon’ll go along with it for a while,” said John. “He’ll quit as soon as he gets bored, though.”

“As I said, the role would be voluntary.”

“So, when is this happening?” Rodney halted his agitated progress. “And what about our talks with the Coalition?”

“Our meeting with the Coalition will have to go ahead, of course, but my preparations for declassification will necessitate a slight change of plan.”

“Really? I’m still going, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, of course, Dr McKay. Now more than ever, it is essential that we share the technology we have to offer with our diplomatic partners so that we can tell the people of Earth of our success in establishing peaceful relations with another galaxy.”

“Not with the Wraith,” said John, shortly. “Except Todd.”

“No, well, there may be a certain amount of down-playing to be done. Especially in light of recent intelligence.” That sneering face over a flickering video-link, telling of a new queen around which the scattered remnants of the Wraith were rallying. Had he been right to release Todd when they had returned to the Pegasus Galaxy? Was their sometime ally spinning another complex web of lies and half-truths, designed to draw Atlantis in, to achieve his own Machiavellian ends? Or, after their recent successful campaigns, would the destruction of this last rallying point mean the end to the Wraith’s long reign of terror over the galaxy?

“They can’t expect me to quit and head back to Earth when we’re heading for a final showdown with the Wraith.”

“That report remains unverified.” Woolsey observed the tension in the set of the Colonel’s shoulders and a twitching muscle in his jaw. The man needed action. “I’d like you to accompany Dr McKay in my place, Colonel.”

“Really? You’re sending Sheppard to do the pretty speeches?”

“Speeches will not be required,” said Woolsey. “We have already agreed between us what we have to offer. The main purpose of the meeting will be for you to reiterate our conditions and assist the various representatives in making plans for what they can use. Also to establish what training we may be able to offer them in terms of manufacturing and expertise, and what audits will be carried out to ensure that the technology is being used for its intended purpose.”

“Rather than cobbling together bombs to destroy the rest of us,” Rodney muttered. “It could happen!” 

“My purpose at the meeting would have been merely to represent authority.”

“A silent figurehead. Sheppard’s more than capable of that.”

“McKay!”

Anticipating a display of the men’s trademark needling, Richard said, “To summarise then, I would like the two of you to bring our meetings with the Coalition to a successful conclusion. Also, we should all begin our preparations for an extended, if not indefinite stay on Earth.” His eyes were drawn to the silent Gate below, and for a moment they all looked at the great circle, the way to so many possibilities that might, for each of them, soon be just a memory. “The time is right for us to pass on the baton.” Woolsey spoke to reassure himself as much as his colleagues. “With the success of Dr Beckett’s retrovirus and the final rallying of Wraith forces, peace _will_ come to the Pegasus Galaxy. The time _is_ right.”

The Colonel unfolded himself stiffly from his seat. “Better get started, then - passing the baton.” He nodded, meeting his leader’s eyes in a brief, shuttered glance.

“Yes, onward and upward,” said Rodney, briskly. “Time to stir the minions into action.”

oOo

“McKay.”

Rodney stopped, half in, half out of the transporter. He turned to regard his friend and teammate, who had one hand hooked in his belt, the other tapping his thigh holster. There were a thousand words trapped behind his eyes. 

“Uh, so, are you, uh, are you cool with this?”

“What, declassification? Returning to Earth to be lauded and applauded and showered with recognition and garlanded with laurel wreaths in the classical style?”

“So, you’re cool, then?”

Rodney shrugged. “We all knew it was coming.”

“Yeah. I guess.” John’s shoulders drooped. He ran one hand through his wayward hair.

“Not really your kind of thing, is it, Sheppard? Being in the public eye. Smiling and shaking hands. It’ll be dress-blues every day, for you.” The drooping shoulders shifted, as if John could already feel the weight of the heavy fabric. They'd climbed the stairs together, that first time, Rodney and John, when the City lit up for them; and since then they'd worked and played and fought and nearly died together so many times. “It was always going to end sometime. We can't go on forever, being here, on the front line. ”

“Yeah.” John smiled a twisted smile, half genuine, half bitter. “And you were always gonna get your Nobels in the end.” He turned and marched away. To the armoury, probably, thought Rodney. Or maybe the shooting range, to blast a paper target into shreds and watch it fall apart.

Rodney stepped into the transporter and tapped the display.

The Nobels, the white picket fence, the respectable, settled life; these things that had seemed vague, distant images, were now brought into sharp focus as real, almost inevitable features of his future. And they were good things, he told himself, making his way to his lab, injecting a spring into his step that, somehow, felt false; things that he’d long aspired to, that he deserved. Although, _had_ he long aspired to a white picket fence and the associated home and, presumably, family? Maybe not, but, he was now at a time in his life where such aspirations had better either bear fruit or be forgotten. 

Jennifer. He should have gone to the infirmary, rather than his lab. Jennifer should know, so that she could make plans. Would she return to Earth with him? Yes, of course she would. She wanted the settled life, he was sure. A post at a respected hospital, a home, a family; these were things that she wanted. Marriage, too; now was the time to make a commitment.

Rodney turned away from his lab and took a few steps back to the transporter, but then stopped, the sharp, technicolour images of his future bright before him. Then he turned back, slowly entered his lab and looked around. He moved between the benches, trailing a hand along an edge, touching an artifact here, a monitor there, as if already saying farewell to the workspace that had been his for five, six years. 

This lab, this city, this galaxy; they were his world, they had seen the big events, the changes, the development in his life and work, even his character. Could he really leave? Would anything else ever match up to what he had done here? And, he had to admit, it wasn’t just the place, the marvels of science; at one time he had pictured himself an island, alone in an ocean of incompetence, detached and happy to be so from the morass of idiocy that made up the human race. Now? He thought about the scientists that he led and was surprised to find himself concerned for their future. Yes, Zelenka would do his best and his best was good. Oh, come on, he told himself. Zelenka’s best was amazing. Not as good as his, though. They’d manage. Wouldn’t they?

His team; he’d been avoiding thinking about them. About what this really meant for Sheppard, for Teyla, for Ronon. Because, yes, they’d be coming to Earth to do the whole meet, greet and assure everyone that not all aliens were head-burrowing creeps or life-sucking vampires, but after that? When the fuss was all over, or reduced to acceptable levels? They’d go their separate ways, wouldn’t they? Each moving onward to a separate future. The end of the team. Rodney sat down, heavily, on a stool. He sifted the junk on the bench before him, drew out an energy bar and began to eat, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

oOo

“I don’t know,” said John. “Maybe they’ll give you the job. Promote you to Lieutenant Colonel. It’s been done before.” He tried to smile at his Executive Officer.

Lorne flicked at the corner of some of the paperwork that littered his desk. “Then I’d need an XO to do all my box-ticking.”

“Huh, yeah.” John eased himself off the corner of Lorne’s desk. “Well, there it is. That’s the sitrep.”

“No more news from Todd?”

John shook his head. Did he really want the report to be true? A powerful queen on the rise, stirring up the Wraith, building herself a fleet to take on Atlantis? Did he want it to be true, so that he could stay, his dubious relationship with Todd making him indispensable? _You know how to talk to me, John Sheppard._ He shrugged. “It’s Todd. Sometimes I think he just wants the attention.”

Lorne met John’s smirk with a rueful roll of his eyes, but then reverted to his usual gaze, open and direct. “You’ll be a hard act to follow.”

John shook his head, opened his mouth and shut it again. There was so much he could say. He shrugged and left.

In his quarters, he opened the closet and stared at his dress blues, hanging vertically, straight and proper and ready for him to become similarly straight and proper; clean-cut, smiling reassuringly, the face of the ‘all-in-a-day’s-work’ stoic, solid defence of Earth’s people and interests. 

He’d always hidden; he acknowledged that. And he didn’t know any other way to be than to hide how he really felt inside; hiding his dreams of freedom and flight from his family, hiding his stifling background from his friends, then hiding his pain from his wife, and burying his feelings in the stark, sharp freezing white of Antarctica. Here, on Atlantis, he’d also tried to hide, but his true family, his found family had been able to see through to what lay underneath, so that even if he thought he was hiding, they knew. 

But that would be over and he’d have to construct another mask and live behind it; live right out there in the public eye, with everyone on Earth recognising him instantly wherever he went. His mask would have to be thick and hard and tight, because there would be no place to hide and, with the loss of his team, no one who he didn’t have to hide from.

Rodney would have Jennifer; the life of a respected, maybe even revered scientist and the love of a woman, a home, a family. Was he jealous? Was that what John wanted too? No. Surely he’d rather be like Ronon, fighting the Wraith, out there, being real, being present in the rush and scramble and dirt and blood of the fight.

Or at least, perhaps not out there, he admitted. Not so much anymore. He was getting older and he did recognise that he couldn’t be on a Gate team forever. But to leave Atlantis? John closed his eyes and bathed in the calm, reassuring presence; the truly audible hum, the faint vibration through the soles of his feet and the soft caress in a deep part of his mind, a gentle, knowing touch that was only for him.

He ran a hand down the blue sleeve, the fabric catching slightly on his calloused fingers. _Think of where we are in the solar system._ Those words had begun it all - the wonder and the horror and the glorious, terrifying variety. But above all, the words had awoken in John a part of himself that he had never dreamt existed. Estranged from his father and brother, divorced from his wife, Rodney’s words had awoken that strand of his inner self that linked him indelibly to a long-ago people, and to their city that had become his home, his life.

For a moment he wished he were back there, with it all to do again. What would he do differently? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t go back. Only forward, to whatever the future held.

oOo

The infirmary was quiet, just a nurse bandaging a Marine’s hand, and a row of empty beds. Rodney quirked his eyebrows at the nurse, who nodded confirmation of the doctor’s presence. He made his way to Jennifer’s office. The door was shut and there were voices inside; a private consultation? He hesitated, wondering whether to knock. At one time, he would have put his needs above anyone else’s and just barged in. Somewhat wistful for those simple days, he waited.

The door opened. Sheppard came out. He stuffed something in his pocket.

“Rodney, uh…”

“Rodney, is that you?” Jennifer emerged, and Rodney felt a smile spread across his face, matching the smile on hers.

“See you later, McKay.” John slouched away.

“What did he want?”

“Rodney,” she reprimanded, still smiling as she ushered him into her office. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I have a right to know if there’s anything that’s going to compromise the safety of my team.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No. I don’t,” he acknowledged. “But I still want to know. It’s nothing serious, is it?” He recalled John’s stunned silence in the meeting with Woolsey. Was it just the news of declassification that had made his face grim, or something else?

Jennifer pressed her lips together slightly and widened her eyes. She looked like an exasperated hamster. “I... can’t... tell... you,” she repeated. “Now, sit and tell me the news that I’ve heard already.”

“Oh,” he said, subsiding like a deflated balloon. “Well, there’s not much point if Sheppard’s got here first with all the gossip. Is that why he was here?”

“Maybe I should say yes,” she said, “and then you might leave it alone! Here.” She opened her desk drawer and took out a small bar of chocolate. “I’ve been saving this for you. When did you last eat?”

Rodney gave her a run-down of his day’s consumption, gratified by the return of small, professional nods, indicative of her attention to the seriousness of his diet. He stopped talking and she popped a square of chocolate in his mouth.

“So.” Jennifer set down the chocolate bar. Rodney watched it, hoping he hadn’t received her maximum dose. “Declassification. Fame and fortune.”

“Apparently so,” he said.

“It’s good. You deserve recognition, Rodney. And a position that means not everything falls on your shoulders.”

He frowned. “ _Head_ of Homeworld Science. Doesn’t that give a pretty globally heavy impression?”

“But that’s just a title, isn’t it? Head of a committee that oversees things. You’ll read a few reports, give them the benefit of your experience, but have plenty of time for other pursuits.” She smiled and arched an eyebrow suggestively.

“Oh.” Other pursuits. “So, what about you? I mean, if I’m on Earth and you’re here, then -”

Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Of course, I’ll come too! Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“No. Well, I didn’t want to assume.”

“Go ahead and assume, Dr McKay.” 

She put her arms around his neck and kissed his forehead, which was nice. Then she broke off another square of chocolate and fed it to him, which was nice too. And he didn’t want to devalue the whole niceness thing, because it was good, it was important and it was the kind of thing a couple were supposed to be. But would it be enough? Enough to replace Atlantis and his team?

“And when things have settled down and you know where you’re going to be based, we can look around for a house. Something with a big yard and good schools nearby.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose. But not until you know where you’ll be working.”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking I might take a break. So I can concentrate on us.”

Jennifer’s office seemed very small and the walls very close. “I, uh, I expect I’ll be away a lot. At conferences and so on. Setting things straight in the world of physics. Bringing my colleagues down a peg or- I mean bringing them up-to-date.”

“Rodney.” She said his name as a gentle reprimand, so that he knew he was about to be redirected toward more acceptable behaviour. “You know you’ll have to learn to be a bit more… conciliatory.”

“What? Why? Will I?”

She patted his upper arm and then cupped his cheek with her hand, gazing softly into his eyes. “You’ll get more out of people that way. I know you can do it.”

It occurred to Rodney that the only time he’d been at all conciliatory was when he’d been heavily under the influence of alien technology or parasites. He decided to change the subject. “I’m worried about Sheppard.”

“Rodney, for the last time -”

“No, I didn’t mean that. You’re not going to tell me why he was here, because you’re far too professional, and it’s none of my business, even though… No.” He glanced at the chocolate and she took the hint. “Thank you. No, it’s just that he’s going to be turned into some kind of poster boy for the Pegasus expedition, and, yes, I know there’ll be some of that for all of us, but eventually they’ll have to let me get back to the serious science, whereas they’re never going to let John go back out in the field again. It’ll be a desk job for him, probably a meaningless one, because they’ll keep rolling him out to reassure the public; talk shows, debates, after-dinner speaking, who knows, probably the whole opening hospitals and kissing babies routine.”

“That doesn’t sound like our Colonel.”

“No. It doesn’t. He’ll hate it. He’ll hate it but do it anyway, because it’s his duty.”

Jennifer played with a trailing end of her hair. “You know he couldn’t stay on a Gate team forever.”

“I know that. He’ll slow down one day. Get himself killed.”

“He’ll be safe on Earth. Well, as safe as any of us ever are.”

“I know. Safe but miserable.”

“Rodney? You won’t be miserable will you?”

He looked into her eyes, younger than his and yet reflecting their fair share of the horror and fear that she’d been through since arriving on Atlantis. She deserved a safe life, a family, an illustrious career - although perhaps now a career wasn’t part of her plan? But although Rodney had his doubts about the future, he did love her, didn’t he? He’d make sure she got what she deserved; even if it involved some compromise or uncertainty on his part. “No,” he said, smiling. “Of course I won’t. Nobels await me.”

Her face glowed, she leant forward and kissed him sweetly on the lips.

“Can I have another -”

She followed her kiss with another square of chocolate.

oOo

The kitchen had made a serious mistake with the beef-type-meat stroganoff, so that it had come out tinged faintly blue. In a strange kind of way, John thought, it summed up the atmosphere in the Mess. The normal buzz of the evening meal was slightly off-key, a mixture of apprehension, excitement and uncertainty pervading the air, along with the scent of the strange-looking dish. He allowed the server to pile his plate and forced himself to counter the ‘one-more-comment-and-I-go-for-the-cleaver’ expression on the cook’s face.

“Thank you,” he said, with his most unconvincing smirk.

“You’re welcome,” she threatened.

The team were all there, along with Jennifer, Amelia, Kanaan and Torren. “Hey guys,” he said, taking the spare seat. There was a subdued murmur of greeting from the adults and a shout of “John-John!” from Torren.

“Ah, you’ve gone for the blue peril, I see,” remarked Rodney. “The gourmet’s choice.”

“Yeah. I didn’t like to ask for a sandwich.”

“No, no, go ahead. I’d like to see that. Go on. My money’s on julienne strips of Sheppard. Or maybe dice.”

Ronon snorted.

“Rodney! Leave the Colonel alone.” Jennifer poked dubiously at her own plateful. “It’s that red-leaved plant,” she said.

“The irrisen,” agreed Teyla. “It can be good in a meat stew, but not one with a white, creamy sauce.”

“And not when it’s been boiled to hell and back,” said Rodney, tucking in nevertheless.

“Tastes fine.” Ronon broke a bread roll in half and wiped it round the blue sauce that was all that remained of his meal.

John began to eat. Ronon was right. It tasted okay. Most things were okay, when he was with his team; his team, that he’d soon be leaving behind. “Uh, look, guys. I, uh, I just wanted to say…” He trailed off, having glanced up to find all eyes directed his way, even Torren, solemn, with a dribble of blue sauce running down his chin. John’s words stuck in his throat.

Teyla came to the rescue, as usual. “A time of change is coming,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. Change.”

“And none of us know what the future holds for us.”

“No,” he agreed.

“We have been through much together, weathered many storms. Our bond will remain, no matter the distance between us.” 

Teyla grasped Ronon’s hand on her right and Kanaan’s on her left. Slowly, they all linked hands. Torren reached out and grabbed John’s right hand, grinning at his prize. John hesitated but Rodney, with a muttered, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sheppard,” grasped his left.

“Our bond will remain,” Teyla repeated.

And though eight pairs of hands linked, it was those of his three teammates that John felt; their strength, their knowledge and acceptance of him as a man, their lives that had been offered for his and his for theirs, time and time again. He locked eyes with each in turn; blue with determination and uncertainty, golden with reassurance, and dark brown under lowering brows, with stoicism and strength.

Then the moment was over. Hands were dropped, along with smiles and small laughs. They finished their meal.

oOo

Woolsey would have worn a suit. John wore his standard field kit with the exception of his P90, which wasn’t considered de rigueur for a diplomatic mission. He had his sidearm, though, which gave him a certain measure of comfort, and by the end of the first morning of discussions, in which he took little part, he had begun imagining the neat, round holes his weapon would make, precisely in the centre of each forehead of the assembled Coalition members. They seemed to have been chosen for their imperviousness to boredom and their ability to misunderstand each small point of Atlantis’ proposal so that clarification was constantly and lengthily required.

Was this the kind of thing they’d have him doing on Earth? A ‘silent figurehead’ as Rodney had called him, just here as an acceptable, approachable, ignorable military face. No. This was no way to use his skills, the experience he’d built up over his time in the Pegasus Galaxy; and it wasn’t just his usual restless energy, his eagerness to be out there doing things that was giving him an antsy, crawling shiver between his shoulder blades. He was _needed_ out there, to chase down Todd, follow up the intel; to do his real job.

It was amazing that McKay hadn’t lost his cool. John slid his heavy eyes over his companion, considering his square-shouldered posture, just slightly reclined, the thumbs of both hands tucked into pockets in his tac vest, his mouth firm, his eyes direct. He was undoubtedly picturing the additional glory that would be his following the revelation that he was not only the greatest scientist in two galaxies but also a wise and dignified statesman and diplomat. His current pose should be captured in oils. Maybe John should have delegated Lorne, who could have occupied himself with preliminary sketches for the portrait.

“Sheppard?”

“What? Huh?” Heavy wooden chairs were scraping, the ponderous turn-taking voices had dissolved into a general, self-satisfied murmur and Rodney was peering down at him.

“Lunch break.”

“Oh, right.”

John pushed back his chair and stood, straightening up tentatively. He noticed Rodney watching him and forced a casual smile and a nonchalant posture. “What’s the plan?”

“Back to our rooms to freshen up, then an extended lunch, over what, I’m guessing, will be more of the same discussion. But at least we can eat while Councillor Pompous asks for further clarification on the last eighty-two points we’ve already done to death.”

“Sounds like a whole lotta fun.”

“Yes, well, it’s got to be done. Just don’t have any wine. I’m not sure I can retain my statesmanlike dignity if I have to shout over your snores.”

“Got it.” John yawned. He led the way to their assigned rooms within the rambling mansion, which was built half into a cliff, for better protection from Wraith incursions. He blinked and pinched himself to try to wake up his flagging senses. “So, Councillor Pompous, which is he?”

“The revoltingly self-important one and no, that doesn’t narrow it down much. He represents somewhere with a stupid name, ‘Fencoranindon’ or something.” Rodney checked off on his fingers. “There’s Councillor Elven from Manaria, and no, disappointingly he doesn’t have pointy ears. There’s Elric of the Genii, -”

“I know _him_ ,” snarled John.

“Yes. And then there’s Pirrin representing that dwarf planet and its moons and, oh, I don’t know... I think I’m doing pretty well to remember that much. I wish they’d use our planet designations. It’d be a lot less confusing.”

“Yeah, kinda Milky Way-centric, though.”

“I suppose.”

They arrived at their rooms. Even here, with tight Coalition security bolstered by a team of Marines to guard the exits, there was no excuse not to take basic precautions. “Wait, Rodney.” John knelt down and checked the hair that he’d placed between Rodney’s door and its frame; still in place. Nevertheless, John entered first, checked behind the heavy velvet hangings, under the bed, in the tiny washroom - anywhere there might be a lurking assailant. “Clear.”

“Good. Now go and do your soldier boy routine in your room. I need the bathroom. And maybe a quick snooze.”

John checked his own room and found it clear and undisturbed. He entered the windowless bathroom, relieved himself, washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face. Towelling his face dry, his senses suddenly flashed to full alert as he caught the unmistakable hollow ‘scroop’ of stone against stone. 

He let the towel fall and silently drew his sidearm, flicking off the safety. There was silence, but to John’s straining ears it was a waiting silence, full of threat. He squashed himself into a corner and gave the door a quick shove with his boot. It creaked open. Nothing happened. John eased his body around the edge of the door frame, listening. Perhaps he had imagined the sound; could it have been from Rodney’s room? He slid further round the frame. The empty room taunted him, the golden afternoon light creating a haze of dancing dust motes and a pool on the patterned bed covers. John’s heart rate rose, despite the peaceful scene; he felt himself observed. The Para .45 rock-steady before his eyes, he scanned the room, keeping his back to the wall; the bed, a wooden chest, a wardrobe, a chair, the blank stone walls. Nothing. And yet the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he felt the drill of hostile eyes.

A muffled cry came from Rodney’s room and the sound of something dropping. John’s hand was suddenly on the door handle, but then he too cried out as a hot point of stinging pain erupted on the back of his neck. The room twisted and turned around him. He clung to his weapon, ordered his finger to squeeze and heard the thunder of his firing echo round the room again and again before he felt a blow on the back of his head and the wooden ceiling beams wove and danced before his eyes. He caught a brief glimpse of a looming face, which dissolved into grey.

oOo

There was a foul taste in Rodney’s mouth and he swore and spat, awaking a fierce throbbing at the back of his head, which shifted to his temples and then back again as if it couldn’t decide how best to make him miserable. His protest emerged as a sickly groan. It met no response and Rodney’s sluggish senses tried to pull themselves together to establish his situation.

There was a hard floor, against which his cheek was pressed, as well the rest of his body, with just a thin layer of fabric between him and it, and he didn’t remember taking off his vest. His head ached and his stomach churned and roiled. Rodney breathed slowly and clamped his lips tightly together. His slow breaths brought a familiar scent; bitter, earthy, cool and damp, it reminded him of a forest in the autumn. The lurch of fear in his chest was not for the possibility of wild forest creatures, however, but because the scent was unmistakable, and a glance through blurring, slitted eyes brought confirmation: he was on a Wraith ship. Rodney groaned again and this time his groan had an echo.

“Sheppard?”

“Huh.”

Rodney pushed himself up on shaking hands. The black, disheveled shape next to him on the floor of the small, organically wraith-formed cell was his friend; no tac vest, no sidearm, but nevertheless intact and seemingly uninjured. He prodded the supine form and received another groan before John pushed himself upright, wincing, his face pale, the shadowed jaw an indication of several hours missed.

John rubbed the back of his neck. “Dart,” he said. 

“Your wits are addled, Sheppard. Wraith, yes, but a little too big for a dart.”

“Poison dart.”

“Oh. I see” Rodney rubbed the sore spot on the side of his neck. “You checked the room. How did they get in?”

John shrugged, winced and shook his head. “Thick walls.”

“You mean a secret passage?”

“Yeah.” He sat up straighter and began examining his surroundings. “Hive ship?”

“Maybe. Who sold us out, though? And why?”

“I dunno.” John climbed slowly to his feet and limped around the perimeter of the small room, bent over, with one hand wrapped around his stomach.

“Did they hurt you?”

John immediately straightened up and his hand dropped to his side. “Not apart from the dart. And I think I hit my head on the floor. You?”

“Same,” said Rodney, rubbing his forehead. “What do you think they’ll do with us? Ransom?”

“Who knows?” John lowered himself down next to his friend. “They left you anything?”

Rodney searched his pockets. “Two energy bars, a pack of kleenex and a jelly baby.”

“A jelly baby?”

“A green one, slightly furry.”

John frowned. “Which Doctor -”

“Fourth. Tom Baker.” Rodney bit off the head and offered John the body.

“No, thanks, you need it more than I do.”

Rodney devoured the rest of the jelly baby. “So? Got anything?”

“Uh, they left my watch, which makes a change.” He delved into his pockets.

“C4?” said Rodney, hopefully.

John drew out a small object and squinted at it.

“What’s that?”

“Satedan horse-thing. Ronon made it for Torren.”

“Oh. That’s er… completely useless.”

John put the tiny wooden creature back in his pocket. His expression was blank, but there were serious thoughts going on, Rodney knew; probably a vow to return the toy to its owner.

The door slid open. Predictably, there was a wraith. Unpredictably, Rodney could see what looked like a small flight deck beyond the tall figure, far too small for a hive, or even a cruiser, and even more unpredictably, the wraith didn’t go for the default snarling, hissing preliminaries before snatching one of them up and gorging himself ecstatically on the victim’s life force. If there was such a thing, this was a tentative, embarrassed wraith.

“I will not harm you,” he said. 

“Oh, really? Because my head feels pretty harmed,” Rodney replied. “Not to mention the fact that kidnapping itself constitutes harm in my extensive book of ‘Ways the Pegasus Galaxy messes you up’.”

John stood and confronted the wraith, who looked even more embarrassed. “What’s the deal, here? Where are you taking us? Who’s behind this?”

“Certain elements of your Coalition do not wish for the stability that alliance with Earth will bring. They prefer to ally themselves with my brethren.”

“Wraith worshippers,” said Rodney. He, too, climbed unsteadily to his feet, unwilling to be looked down upon by his captor, although as wraith went, this was not one of the bulkier, formidable specimens.

The wraith bobbed his head in acknowledgement. His skin was clear and smooth, with no facial tattoo and no beard; youthful, but perhaps youth extended into the hundreds of years for a wraith.

“So, what, you’re taking us to your queen?” John stepped forward aggressively. “I don’t think so.”

The young wraith shook his head. “No, my queen is long since lost in battle. The queen that stands against Atlantis in this matter would have been delighted to feed upon you herself, but my task was to take you from your captors on that world, kill you and swiftly dispose of your remains.”

“Nice. But?”

The wraith linked his arms behind his back and puffed out his chest. “Too long have the Wraith been slaves to their hunger,” he declaimed. “For thousands of years we have devoured our human prey, our lives driven by our need for the life force of other sentient beings. I will not stand by and see this continue!”

“Okay,” said John, neutrally. 

Rodney rolled his eyes; he’d had more than enough speech-making for one day.

“The people of Atlantis have made many mistakes, but they are the only ones who have offered hope of a different life, a different way forward into the future!”

“Amazing,” said Rodney, dryly. “A wraith political activist.”

“So, what’s your plan? You’re taking us home?” 

The wraith deflated. “Ah, I do not feel that would be the best course,” he said. “I have infiltrated the alliance of Wraith and their worshippers within the Coalition, but my position is not secure. And if word were to get back that you had returned to Atlantis, it would become untenable.”

“No back-up, huh?”

The Wraith shook his head. “I have been forced to act alone.”

“Mom and Dad want you to finish college?”

“I do not understand your words.”

“Never mind that,” said Rodney. “What are you going to do with us?”

“I will leave you on a planet with a Gate.”

“A planet with a Gate? We’ll just go home.”

“I did not say I would leave you near the Gate.”

“Oh, that’s just fantastic,” said Rodney.

“It is the best I can do.”

“Oh, really, and what if we were to - Ow, dammit!” A forcefield sparked blue in the entrance as John lunged for the stunner that hung at the wraith’s side.

“As you see.” Their captor held out his hands apologetically. “I will beam you straight down to the surface of the planet.”

John sucked his burnt fingers. “Inhabited?”

“Indeed.”

“Inhabited by what?” Rodney folded his arms and glared. “Man-eating freaks? Ravenous monsters?”

“Humans, such as yourselves. A significant population.” The wraith reached to one side, then hesitated. “My sensors tell me there is more Wraith activity on this planet than I had anticipated. I will leave you where I believe I can approach undetected. It is not ideal, but I can spare no more time.”

“Wait a minute! Where’s our gear? We need our vests, our weapons.”

“You were brought to me as you stand, without any other possessions.” His hand strayed toward the door controls once more.

“No, wait!” Rodney protested. “You might as well kill us as leave us on a Wraith-infested planet! That’s not a recommendation, by the way.”

“Take us to Atlantis,” John urged. “Or at least tell them where we are. Or Todd! Our ally. Come on, you said we offered the Wraith hope, so you offer us some hope!” 

The wraith shook his head. “I have done what I can.” He tapped the door controls and it slid shut.

A moment later the ship began to vibrate.

“What’s happening?” The room lurched and Rodney leant against the wall and slid down it.

“Atmospheric entry.” John slid down next to him.

The vibrating increased, until Rodney’s teeth rattled in his head, but then slowly faded. “I wonder what -” 

They were enveloped in silvery light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the opening of my story. Please let me know what you think. Now onward, to discover the world where John and Rodney have been abandoned!

In John’s experience, two periods of unconsciousness within any twenty-four hour period were never a good thing. His head pounded and the light hurt his eyes, even though his eyes, as far as his mashed-up senses could tell, were still closed. That meant daylight. So the teen-wraith playing at double agent had done his stuff. 

The ground felt gritty, uneven and, in places, sharp, digging into his chest and stomach. There was sun on his back, but a cold breeze worked its way around and under him. The air had a clean scent with a thin flavour that suggested mountains. 

He should open his eyes, get up, switch his military circuits back on. But the circuits seemed to have developed a short. John lay where he was.

“Uh, God, what the hell…?” A series of coughs and curses came from next to him.

For the second time that day, John pushed himself up, wincing, and added a few curses to his friend’s. “You okay?”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50828233852/in/dateposted-public/)

“No. What did that moron do? Use the combined beam and stun setting?”

John blinked, rubbed his eyes, cursed a bit more and looked at his friend: pale face, sunken eyes, rumpled, dusty clothes and a thoroughly pissed-off scowl. Good enough. The military circuits sparked to life and John scanned their surroundings.

Arid, he thought, looking at the rise and fall of sandy-yellow, rocky terrain. There were a few scrubby bushes here and there, and further down, the slope was dotted with tall, thick-branched figures. Space-cactuses, John dubbed them. What a stupid name. He was definitely off his game.

“So, people? Transport? _Food?_ ” demanded Rodney.

John climbed to his feet, breathed slowly in and out to give his spinning head time to settle and then turned in place, his boots crunching on the loose grit. “That way,” he said, studying the sky.

“What? Why?”

“Smoke trails.”

“Oh.” Rodney huffed, scrubbed his hands over his face, and got up. He wobbled and John caught his arm. “I’m too old for this crap. And my mouth feels like something’s died in it. Or had a party. Or had a party and then died.”

“Helluva party,” commented John.

“Hmm. So, who do you think was in on it? Who were the wraith-friends in the Coalition camp?”

“I don’t know. Coulda been all of ‘em.”

“So much for telling Earth all about our peaceful relations. What the hell is wrong with these people? We were trying to help. Offering them technology, freely, no-strings-attached. So, they think ‘Friendly and helpful? They obviously deserve to die!’”

“We’re not dead.”

“No, just stuck on a dried-up ball of rock, God knows how far from the Gate. What are we going to do, Sheppard?”

The Coalition, the Wraith-worshippers, the rising new Wraith queen: they danced about the dried-up landscape, phantoms of John’s own helplessness and fear. He dismissed them. “We’re going to do one thing at a time. And the first thing is to follow those smoke trails. C’mon, McKay.” 

John led Rodney down the slope, then up a rise, following a ravine carved by runnels of water; dry now, and no prospect of rain on the horizon. He looked up at the empty blue sky. There was definitely a dark haze, and he let it guide him, circling a bluff, scrambling up a contorted ridge until there was a steep drop before them, and a narrow valley leading down to a wide, dusty plain. John flattened himself on the ground and motioned Rodney to do the same. No point presenting their silhouettes to anyone who might be watching.

Rodney grumbled as he arranged himself on the ground. “Have we dropped into a Western?”

“I reckon so, Sundance.”

“I’m Butch. _You’re_ the Sundance Kid.”

“Whatever.” John narrowed his eyes against the glare and studied the town below. Rodney was right. It was a collection of buildings such as one might find in a Western movie - false facades hiding the simple, box-like constructions behind, their rough planking faded to a uniform weathered grey by harsh extremes of weather. At one end of town the buildings diminished to shacks and tents, thrown together from whatever came to hand. Where the angle of the buildings allowed, John could see movement in the streets; nothing hurried, just the everyday comings and goings of a normal, peaceful town.

Rodney huffed. “Are we going down there or are we going to stay up here and die of thirst? And hunger?”

John continued his scrutiny. There were animals - some in corrals, some ridden - not horses, but similar. A reasonable sized town in a rough country and, if the wraith had done as he said, they were nowhere near the Gate. Which argued for more and probably bigger settlements between here and the Gate’s location.

“Sheppard? It looks fine, let’s go.”

“Yeah, it looks fine. But let’s just take it easy, yeah? Get a feel for the place.”

They climbed over the ridge and slipped and skidded down the other side, until they came to a trail of sorts which led onto the lower, shallower slopes. John’s mouth was dry and the glare from the near-white rock made his headache return with a vengeance. His stomach felt empty, but the thought of food wasn’t attractive. Rodney would need to eat soon, though. “Hey, you should have one of those energy bars.”

“My mouth’s too dry,” Rodney rasped. “I’d choke.”

A corral of the horse-like creatures was the first construction they encountered. The beasts were tall, with broad, cloven hooves, and long scrawny necks like camels. Their faces had the indifferent acceptance of cows, however, and they had stumps where, presumably, wild animals of this type would have had horns. There were also some smaller goat-like creatures which honked like geese at the two men.

“Shut up,” Rodney croaked.

The next building was a barn and possibly livery stable, and then they were into the streets proper; simple dirt roads that would turn to mud at the first hint of rain, a raised sidewalk to protect pedestrians from the mire, and the pedestrians themselves. There were busy-looking women with skirts hitched up against the dust, baskets over their arms; there were children playing games in the street and small knots of amiably gossiping friends here and there. A few glanced at John and Rodney, but their dark clothes and dusty, weary appearance weren’t unusual enough to cause comment or alarm.

A water trough caught John’s eye, with a couple of the camel-cows hitched to a rail and drinking thirstily. (Cowels? Camows? He gave up.) John almost ran forward and dunked in his head next to the slurping creatures, but Rodney was heading in another direction: a fountain. It was a small, round, stone bowl on a plinth to one side of the street - functional rather than beautiful - but the steady trickle of water lured John in like a magnet.

He let Rodney drink first, then, when his friend’s face was wet and his eyes were brighter with relief, John stuck his head into the stream and drank and drank.

oOo

As soon as he had finished drinking, Rodney realised he was very, very hungry indeed; so much so that the edges of his vision were starting to fuzz. He downed an energy bar at record speed, then, still feeling in desperate need of sugar, began to eat the other one too. He stopped, when John raised his head, spluttering gratefully, from the fountain and held out the remaining half of the bar. John shook his head and Rodney just didn’t have the willpower to insist. He ate the rest. Then nearly spat it out again.

“What?” John’s hand slapped his leg, where his sidearm wasn’t.

Rodney nodded, forcing himself to chew, while backing further into the shadowy side of the street. A figure had turned out of a side alley and was heading away from them. Rodney hadn’t seen his face, but he was tall and wore a black duster, against which his long, white hair stood out sharply. As he walked, people stopped and heads were bowed respectfully in his direction.

“Well, that’s not good,” said John.

“Um. No. What do we do?”

“Nothing. Just wait.”

The Wraith stopped to talk to a group and then turned and began to walk back down the street in John and Rodney’s direction.

“Just act natural,” said John. “He’s obviously known here.”

The figure strode slowly closer with that familiar haughty sense of entitlement.

Rodney frowned. “Hold on, that’s no Wraith.” The skin was a pale grey-green, but vertical brown runnels could be seen descending from his temples, where sweat had washed the colour away. There were marks on his face where a Wraith’s spiracles would be, but they didn’t look natural; they had been cut. “It’s just a man.”

The Wraith-man went into a low building which had metal bars on the windows.

“What do you make of that?” John wiped his sleeve over his wet face. “D’you reckon he’s in charge?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s like a sheriff.” Rodney looked at John. “Either way, what does that suggest to you?”

“Wraith worshippers.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Crap.”

“And again, my thoughts exactly.”

“Okay, we need to focus, here.” John ran his hand through his damp hair. “We have to get to the Gate. So we need a plan.”

“We need to find out where the Gate is, first.”

“Right, and, look I don’t think ‘We’re from Atlantis, please help us get home’ is gonna cut it in this situation, so -”

“...we’ll need some of the local currency.”

“Yeah. There must be somewhere where we can sell stuff.”

“What’ve we got to sell?” Rodney held out his arms and looked himself up and down. He had on his t-shirt, pants and boots. And, of course, his underwear, although he didn’t think kiwifruit-emblazoned boxers would net them much in the way of cash. At least he hoped they wouldn’t, because he wasn’t offering.

“I’ve got my watch,” said John.

“The watch _I_ gave you, designed to work perfectly on any planet, in any condition you care to name from high altitude to crushing deep sea pressure.”

“It’s all we have.”

“I suppose it is. Just don’t expect another.”

They walked along the street, staying on the far side from the local jail, or sheriff’s office. There was a general store, with a variety of hardware hanging outside, from tin baths to yard rakes. There was a diner, out of which tempting smells floated; and then there was a barber’s, at which Rodney rubbed his jaw longingly. Raised voices and the smell of spilt beer issued from a large, brightly-painted frontage. John’s nose twitched, but they moved on, past a tailor’s shop, an ironmongers and a feedstore until they came to a small, dark entrance flanked by two windows displaying a mass of clutter, from knives to playing cards to what looked like ivory figurines. There were also one or two watches displaying timing systems of complete irrelevance to this particular world, as well as some jewelry made from fragments of complex circuitry.

“This is the place,” said John.

They went in.

The store was an Aladdin's cave of objects. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling, furniture crowded the floor and there wasn’t a square inch of wallspace to be seen between paintings, weapons and the heads of snarling stuffed animals. The proprietor sat behind a counter. He wore a leather apron and his hands were black from where he’d been polishing a set of silver spoons.

“Can I help you?” Light reflected off the man’s round spectacles so that Rodney couldn’t see his eyes. His face was lined, his hands gnarled, but the tilt of his head and the brightness of his voice spoke of an acquisitive sharpness.

“Do you buy as well as sell?” Rodney asked.

The man turned to regard a sign on the wall. The gaudy red and gold script was unintelligible, but, judging by the pointed look, it stated the case in no uncertain terms. Rodney chose to believe the man was in the market for a watch.

“Good,” he said, snapping his fingers and holding out his hand. John removed his watch and handed it over. “This is a very special timepiece,” said Rodney. “Powered by a naquadah chip, it’ll never stop, never lose time. Look, here,” he angled the watch toward the light from the window. “You can alter the time units to suit any planet. So, you set the length of your seconds like this, then seconds per minute, minutes per hour, hours per day and so on. I designed and made it myself.”

The pawnbroker took the watch and regarded it doubtfully. “Well, there wouldn’t be much call for such round these parts. You’d do better to sell it up in one of the big towns, or even Teksa’corani, where there’re folks who travel off-world.”

“Teksa’corani. Where the Gate is,” said John.

“Right enough. You’d get a good price there.”

“Yes, of course we would,” said Rodney, rolling his eyes. “But we can’t get there because we don’t have any money.”

“How much will you give us?” John asked.

The man sucked in a breath through his teeth and shook his head, like traders the worlds over. Teyla would make mincemeat of this amateur. “I’ll go to twenty,” he said grudgingly.

_Twenty what?_

John had obviously decided on his strategy regardless of currency. “No way. It’s worth much more than that, even out here. A hundred.”

The old man began to shake, just a little up and down motion of his body, then his head began to waggle back and forth and his breath rasped between his teeth.

“Is he having a seizure? Should we call a doctor?”

John’s face was stony. “He’s laughing, Rodney.”

The old man wiped his eyes, which were dry as far as Rodney could see. _Taking the whole play-acting thing a bit far._

“You youngsters,” he wheezed. “Always joking.”

“It wasn’t a joke,” said John.

The old man’s eyes suddenly became gimlet-sharp. “Thirty,” he said. “And that’s more than generous.”

“Eighty,” countered John.

“It’s a buyer’s market, so don’t try it on. You’ve got nothing, just the clothes on your backs, I can tell that.”

“Eighty,” John repeated, holding the man’s gaze.

“Well now, it’s time for my afternoon nap, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we? You throw in that there band you’ve got round your other wrist and I’ll give you fifty all in.”

“What that old sweatband? Why would you want that?” Rodney demanded.

John put his hand over the band protectively. Rodney had never seen him without it.

“That there, that looks like some of that ee-lastic fabric. You don’t see so much of that around.” He repeated his offer. “Fifty for that and the watch.”

Rodney looked at John, who slowly removed the band and handed it over. Gold glinted at his wrist. “What’s that?”

“Well, lookee here, then! And there’s you saying you’ve nothing else to sell. And a pretty little trinket a-wrapped around your wrist all along. Is it gold?”

John folded his arms, hiding the chain.

“Sheppard?”

“Ah, I reckon it’s from his sweetheart and he don’t want to give it up!”

“John?”

His teammate’s lips were clamped tight, his eyes blank and bleak. He began to speak, cleared his throat and said, “It was my Mom’s.”

“Oh.” Rodney swallowed. “Then you should keep it.”

The pawnbroker’s head swivelled left and right as he tried to see behind John’s shielding arms. “That’s some fine workmanship you’ve got there. If that’s pure gold I’d give you a hundred for that and the watch, and you can keep your black band.”

John’s eyes darted to the man’s face and back down to his wrist.

“Seriously, Sheppard, don’t. We’ll manage. Let’s just take the fifty.”

John shook his head, tightly.

“A hundred and fifty. For both.”

The pawnbroker shook his head. “Well, I can see a man who’s not going to budge. It obviously means something to you.” He nodded decisively. “We’ll call it a hundred fifty.”

John unfolded his arms and held out his wrist. His arm trembled slightly as the pawnbroker undid the delicate clasp. 

“That’s a mighty pretty chain.” It looked even more delicate dangling from the twisted arthritic fingers.

“Will you sell it?” John’s voice was tight, restrained, but Rodney could hear the anguish in its hollowness.

“That’s what I’m here for.” The chain disappeared into a drawer beneath the counter.

“Could you, maybe, hang onto it? For a while. I’ll come back. Buy it back.”

All of his trader’s guile dropped from the man’s face and his eyes became sympathetic. “I have a living to make, young ‘un. But, I’ll leave it for a bit. Til the first snowfall if I can, when folks’ll start looking about for midwinter gifts.”

“Thanks.”

They left the shop and the light outside was harsh and bright and unforgiving. The pawnbroker had called John young, but his face looked gaunt.

“You could’ve kept it. We would have managed.”

John shook his head then, with a visible effort, arranged his features into a smile. “Let’s find somewhere to eat.”

oOo

John ate his stew with little enthusiasm, the black band around his wrist smooth against his skin, without the intervening barely-there skritch of the chain. He’d always worn it, when he could get away with it, when he had a CO who’d turn a blind eye to minor infractions against regulation uniform. And since he’d been the CO, the delicate chain that had been his mother’s had nestled beneath the band, always there, always providing that link, as small as the links in its chain, to his long-passed mother.

“We could buy it back.”

“Just leave it, McKay.” He took another mouthful of stew.

Rodney wiped a piece of bread round his plate, popped it in his mouth and sat back, still chewing. “So, what next?”

“We need intel.” John looked around the diner: green-and-white checked tablecloths, a few scattered customers and, behind the counter, a woman, presumably ‘Ma Kennet’ as the sign above the door had proclaimed. Her back was to him as she bent over a stove, stirring another batch of stew, but then she turned round and, catching John’s eye, approached their table.

“Can I get you anything else? More latcha?” She held her spouted pot over John’s mug. He’d expected, from her title, to see a much older, matronly figure. 'Ma' Kennet was about his own age, maybe a little younger, and attractive, beneath her impersonal friendliness.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, accepting some more of the sharp, rusty-orange brew and trying the effect of a smile. She didn't react, but topped up Rodney’s mug too. “What’s the best way to get to Teksa’corani?”

Ma Kennet wiped her work-reddened, capable hands down her apron and her brown eyes played over the two men with a tinge of suspicion. “You’d get the stage to Symona, then the train’ll take you there, eventually,” she said. “Where’re you from? You got permits?”

John tried to look innocent and harmless and not alarmed at all at her mention of permits. “We came from the hills.”

“That’s hard riding, over those hills. Will you be looking to sell your grennets with you heading for the stage?”

“Grennets?”

The woman’s puzzled expression showed John that this was not a word he should have questioned.

“Your mounts.”

“Oh, uh, no. We’ve already sold them.”

“Right. Well, I won’t question you further, but if you stick around there’s folks who will. 'Specially the Agent.” She opened her mouth as if she had more to say, but then the doorbell jangled as a group entered the diner and she bustled away to serve them.

An elderly man hailed her. "Morning, Lara." 

"Morning Gus. The usual?" Her full lips curved into a smile for her regular customer, and as her face lit something sparked within John as if he had brought an Ancient artifact to glowing life.

Fingers snapped in front of his face. "Sheppard! Mind on the job!"

"McKay!" John batted his friend's hand away. Lara. Her name was Lara Kennet.

Rodney leant forward over the table. “Focus, Kirk! Permits? Agent?”

“Okay, yeah. Permits? I guess for travelling.” John took another swig from his cup. “And the Agent must be the Wraith guy.”

“So he’s like a sheriff, then.”

John shrugged. He hated feeling his way, not being able to ask questions outright. “My guess is, we’re not gonna get far without these permits.”

“How do we get them? Walk up and ask Agent Wraith-face? And what do you think happens to people who don’t have permits?”

“Let’s try not to find out. Look, we need more intel. Let’s check out the stage. We’ll find out how much it is to get to Symona, then work out what to do about permits.” He looked round at the other diners. “Might have to steal some.”

“Oh, yes, why not? Let’s embark on a life of crime on a planet of Wraith-worshippers! I’m sure the authorities are fair and lenient!”

“Keep it down, McKay. Come on.”

They left their plates and cups on the counter, earning a nod of thanks and a smile from Ma Kennet. She must have children. Was there a Pa Kennet? The doorbell jangled as they left and outside the sun was still high. John wondered how long the days were on this planet. He’d already had more than enough for one day, although at least now he wasn’t hungry.

There was a group of children crouched in the dirt playing a game with pebbles and chips of wood. John asked them where the stagecoach office was resulting in a small forest of pointing arms and a few scornful words. The office proved to be on the far side of the town, toward the slum area that they had observed from the ridge. There was a board outside, with a list in the local script, probably detailing the information they required, had they been able to read it. They went in.

“Two tickets to Symona? That’ll be forty chets,” the clerk told them. “It don’t leave til tomorrow, though.”

John handed over the money. “We’re heading for Teksa’corani. D’you know how much the train costs from Symona?”

“Teksa’corani? That’s a fair old journey you got ahead of you. I wouldn’t know how much that’d be.” He scratched his chin. “A hundred, hundred fifty maybe? Each, of course.”

“Thanks,” said John, smiling in entirely feigned good-humour.

“How are we going to get that kind of money?” The wind had picked up outside and Rodney rubbed his eyes as the dust swirled. “And we have to eat along the way. And we’re supposed to have permits!”

“One thing at a time, Rodney. Let’s find somewhere we can sleep tonight, get the stage tomorrow and then… Well, maybe there’s some work we could do. Earn the money.”

“Right. Work.”

“Come on. We’ll check out the saloon, see if they have rooms.”

oOo

Rodney sipped at his small glass of fiery spirit, earning himself a look of derision from a mustachioed hard-man type standing near by, who pointedly downed his glass in one, then poured himself another and downed that too. Rodney ignored him and turned his attention back to the game, which seemed to be the only entertainment in the saloon, other than the drink-stained length of the bar and its extremely limited range of hard spirits and watery looking beer. Six men sat round a table, each holding a sheaf of cards in one hand; oblong, but larger than the Earth type, with five different suits and, as Rodney had observed, sixteen cards per suit.

Rodney had played poker with the Russian scientists in the long, dark Siberian winter and although this game wasn’t poker it had some similarities. Watching the fall of the cards, he soon picked up the rules of the game and the hierarchy of the various hands. The pile of coins and notes grew in front of one player then, in a sudden reversal, moved to another, with scowls on one side and smug complaisance on the other. He was surprised the scowler hadn’t seen it coming; how did he expect to get a good hand when the high cards were obviously all played?

He felt a tap on his shoulder and he moved away from the table at the jerk of John’s head.

“I’ve got us a room for the night,” John said.

“How much?”

“Six pieces.”

“Six? Forty for the stage and, what was it? Three for the food. That’s only a hundred and one left.”

“A hundred. The drinks were one. What’re they playing?”

“Oh, I don’t know what it’s called. A bit like poker. Pretty straightforward if you can count the cards and judge the odds, which I can, of course.”

“Okay, so why don’t you see if you can get in on the game?”

“What, gamble our money? You have got to be kidding me!”

“Why not? You said it looked straightforward.”

“Look at me, Sheppard!” Rodney drew a circle in the air around his face. “What does this expression tell you? Everything! It tells you every little thought that crosses my mind. I don’t have a poker face!”

“Listen, McKay, we really need money. We need to get to the Gate the fastest way we can before someone clocks us as enemy aliens.”

“But I’ll lose everything!”

“No, you won’t. Look, here’s an idea. Instead of trying to be a poker-faced blank, why don’t you just think about something else. Like, if you get a good hand, think about lemons. Or Kavanaugh. And if you get a bad hand think about, I dunno… pie. Or Jennifer.”

“That’s too obvious. I’d have to randomise my facial expressions to confuse the opposition.”

“There you are, you see, you’ve already got a strategy!” John clapped him on the shoulder with sickening optimism.

“Okay, fine. But let me just formally register my opinion at this point: this is A Bad Idea.”

“Nah, you’ll be fine! Let’s see if they’ll let you in on the game.”

They had to wait, but eventually one of the men decided to quit while he was only moderately behind and Rodney found himself sitting down in the vacant space, thinking hard about that time he’d received a casual ‘So long, Rodney’ before John had departed on a suicide run. Judging by the other players’ looks of contempt and welcome, his expression had achieved the level of apprehension he’d been going for.

The cards were dealt. Rodney had a fair hand and thought about lemons and then Sam Carter in rapid alternation. One of the other players poured some of the luminous yellow spirit into a spare glass and pushed it across to him with a muttered, “Steady there, young fella,” which made him think he might have overdone the facial contortions. He threw a couple of coins into the centre, the other players made their bids and the game continued.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50828145071/in/dateposted-public/)

Rodney won and lost fairly evenly to begin with, getting a feel for the rhythm of the game, calculating the odds of a certain hand, but not laying out too much of his capital. His confidence increased and he brought to mind images of the culled in their confining bays and hungry Wraith poised to feed. He maintained these images when the next hand was dealt; he had nearly a full hand of suns, a moon and a tree. He discarded the moon and the tree and drew two more cards and had to think quite hard about John as he’d looked when Todd had fed on him. Rodney pushed a large proportion of his capital into the middle of the table, drawing a few sidelong looks. His heart rate increased but he forced himself to lean back in his chair and take a casual sip from his glass. He won the hand and play continued.

A player quit and another took his place; the mustachioed man who had sneered at Rodney earlier. He sneered still, but his eyes held a speculative, warning gleam. The man regarded the hand he was dealt with no change of expression, slapped down his discard and requested another card. Rodney had a poor hand, lost minimally and waited for another deal, studying the other player’s discarded hands closely and calculating which cards remained in the stack.

He began to enjoy himself, losing minimally and winning big and he was afraid his enjoyment was beginning to leak into his face. Moustache-man glowered and his lips compressed into a thin, downturned grimace. Rodney was dealt a moderate hand, but decided it was very unlikely any of the other players had anything better. He pushed his stake into the centre of the table and felt a tap on his shoulder.

“That’s enough, now, Rodney.”

“What? Why? I’m winning here.”

“You’ve won enough. Leave it now.”

“No, just a while longer.” He screwed his head round to glare at his friend. He was sure he couldn't lose. What was Sheppard worried about?

John frowned and shook his head tightly. Rodney ignored him and continued to play, admiring the pile of shiny coins in front of him. The stage tomorrow, the train up to the Gate city and then home to Atlantis; if the Gate wasn’t guarded too heavily, and, hey, they had plenty of money for bribing guards, didn’t they?

He won another hand.

“Cheat.” 

Rodney looked up. The gravelly voice uttered the word again: “Cheat.” Moustache man gripped the edge of the table, both hands white-knuckled.

“I beg your pardon?” Not his usual strategy, but incredulous politeness was worth a try.

“You heard me.” The angry moustache twitched around at the other players. “You’ve all lost heavy to this newcomer and I say it don’t add up.”

“Oh, come on now, Jex... “ The white-bearded man who had poured Rodney a drink tried to defuse the situation. “Beginner’s luck, maybe.”

“He’s no beginner. He’s some kind of card-sharp, probably with a few suns up his sleeve.”

There was a rumble of agreement from the other players and from some of the lookers-on. Rodney felt pinned by their hostile gaze.

“Oh, come on! How could I have cards up my sleeves? Look!” He plucked at one t-shirt sleeve, then the other. “Just because you don’t understand my methods, that doesn't mean I’m cheating.”

“McKay!”

He ignored John. “It’s a simple game, what am I supposed to do? Lose a few more hands, then pat you on the head and say well done? It’d be like playing with my niece, except even she’d be able to count the odds better than you!”

“Count the odds?” Moustache-man stood up, slowly, his hands now loose at his sides. “That sounds like cheating talk!”

“Why don’t we all just calm down,” said John. “How about I buy everyone a drink?”

“How about I take your friend outside?”

“Okay, I think I’ll be going now.” Rodney reached forward to claim his winnings, and then the whole table flew up into his face and he was knocked backward. 

His chair tipped, he flung up his arms, but couldn’t stop his descent and, as chaos erupted around him, he found himself looking up at the ceiling, with John standing above him, fielding punches right and left and dealing out plenty of his own.

“Get up, McKay!”

Rodney scrambled to his knees, ducked down again to avoid a swinging chair leg, dived backward to avoid John’s deflecting kick and jumped up just in time for his jaw to meet a flying fist. He fell again, onto his back, wriggled and scrambled toward the edge of the fray and regained his feet once more. For a moment he couldn’t see John, but then caught a glimpse of black hair and a flying kick before a meaty fist was heading his way and Rodney sidestepped, grabbed a chair and swung it crashing into his opponent’s back. Then he swiped the chair across in front of him to meet another determined attack. The whole room had joined in with the fighting frenzy and between dodging blows and lashing out with what strategy he could muster, Rodney thought it was a shame the management hadn’t seen fit to organise some alternative entertainment. Even Sheppard singing karaoke would have been better than this.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50828233892/in/dateposted-public/)

He was a fraction too slow to avoid a bottle smashing into the side of his head and he reeled but managed to grab the attacker’s wrist before the jagged remains of the bottle could come into play. He forced the man’s arm up and back and bashed his hand against an upright pillar that supported the staircase, feeling blows thudding into his ribcage, which ceased as the man shrieked and cradled his damaged hand.

Rodney turned and fought his way across the room, both Teyla’s and Ronon’s drills and directions ringing in his ears. Sheppard was still in the thick of the fight and Rodney snatched up a table leg to lend a hand.

Then he flinched as a thunderous report echoed around the room. 

Everyone stopped. 

There was panting, a few moans and the smash and thud of improvised weapons falling. Rodney dropped his table leg. He turned slowly, following the frozen gazes of the men around him.

In the doorway, a glowing energy weapon gripped in one tightly-clenched fist, stood a tall, long-haired silhouette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! It's the sheriff! And who's going to get the blame for smashing up the saloon?
> 
> Thank you for reading! All comments and kudos are very much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers!
> 
> So, what’s going to happen to our dynamic duo? We left them at the mercy of the Wraith agent, having just helped to smash up the saloon. Whoops… Get ready for more enemies, and maybe a friend or two!

“At least there’s no forcefield.” Rodney slapped at the bars of their cell. 

John looked at his friend’s bruised face, seeing remorse, worry, fear and a pathetic attempt at optimism. He let his gaze fall back to the splinter-rough wooden floor, but the vertical bars dug into his back, reminding him of their presence. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles rubbing over the thin scratch of a grey woollen blanket. 

“Look, I’m sorry. You were right. I should’ve stopped. Before it got out of hand.”

John was tempted to go for a ‘Ya think?’ but didn’t have the heart. All their money was gone, disappeared during the fight or taken by the bar owner for damages. It wasn’t fair, but then, with everyone else known to the Agent and two suspicious, permitless strangers? They were bound to come off the losers.

“Sheppard?” Rodney sat down on the cot opposite John’s. He leant forward, anxiously, his hands crushed between his knees. “What d’you think they’ll do with us?”

John shrugged, but a voice from behind him answered. “You’ll get what’s coming to you. You’ll get what always comes to criminals.”

“We’re not criminals!” Rodney protested.

John didn’t move, but the slow clunk of the Agent’s heavy boots on the floor drew his eyes and he looked up into the mutilated face, cut by a knife into the semblance of spiracles and slashed vertically by the harsh iron bars of the cell. The Agent laughed softly. “No travel permits? Causing a disturbance? Criminal damage? That’s enough for me.”

Rodney breathed hard, his face red beneath the bruises on his jaw and his temple. John shook his head and his friend visibly struggled to rein in words that could earn him more of a beating.

“That’s right, you keep your mouth shut. Not that it’ll do any good. I hear tell they’re building a scaffold in Symona. They’ve got themselves a jail-full ready to climb it. You can join them there and save this town the cost of the wood.”

“What? A sc- scaffold? You’re going to hang us?” The colour drained from Rodney’s face and he clapped a hand across his mouth.

John remained leaning against the bars of the cell, but he felt all his muscles tense and his nails dug into the palms of his hands.

“Hang you? Why’d we do that? You’ll stand on that platform and the beams’ll take you, same as every other criminal.”

“Oh.” Rodney swallowed hard. 

John closed his eyes. The Agent laughed again softly and his heavy tread retreated to the front of the jail, his chair scraping back from his desk and creaking as he sat down. There was the papery rustle of a turning page, the scratch of a rough pen, and the wind whining in the high barred slit of a window.

“I’m sorry,” said Rodney again.

“‘S okay.”

“No. No, it isn’t. We could’ve been on our way tomorrow. On our way home.”

John eased himself up from his slouched position, trying not to wince at the pull of strained muscles and the bruises on his ribs and back. He opened his jaw, feeling it with one hand. It clicked when he opened it wide, but it wasn’t broken, just sore.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s blood in your hair.”

He reached up and felt the stiff spikes, parted them and encountered a crust of blood on his scalp. “Yours too,” he said.

Rodney touched his hair above his temple, grimacing. “Some thug hit me with a bottle.”

“Me too.” John stood, pulled back the thin blanket and sat down again. “We should get some sleep.”

“Hmm. I suppose.”

He kicked off his boots and lay down, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders. Rodney sat on the cot, plucking at the rough grey fabric.

“Public culling,” he said.

“Yeah.” John closed his eyes and tried to close his mind. He heard Rodney sigh, then two thuds as he pulled off his boots and dropped them on the floor, then the rustling of fabric and squeak of the wooden cot frame.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll get out of this. Won’t we?”

“Yeah. Course we will.”

The words came easily, but the task ahead was daunting; to escape from the jail, to evade pursuit, to travel across an unfamiliar world and find their way home. John pushed his fear down, but it kept rising up again. Fear for himself and his friend, but also fear of what was happening in their absence. 

This planet, run by Wraith or their servants - he’d had no idea it existed. How many more planets were still under Wraith control? How many human lives were suppressed, distorted, used by the Wraith for their own ends? 

_We’ll get out of this? Won’t we?_

Yes, John repeated to himself. Yes, we will. And we’ll bring down whoever’s in charge of this world and then follow it up by freeing any other world where the Wraith still rule. And forgetting the cold and the bars and the scaffold, John slept.

oOo

The Agent had gone, but a deputy had replaced him behind the desk, his ragged shoulder-length hair and drawn-on spiracles even more of a mockery of the true horror of the Wraith. The small window high in the cell wall was a dark hole and the glow of the brazier barely reached the cell, so that John’s face was completely in shadow. None of its heat reached them and Rodney had curled himself into a tight ball and tucked the blanket beneath himself as closely as he could.

The deputy hadn’t fed the enclosed fire and there was no scent of wood or fossil fuel. Between bouts of shivering, Rodney wondered about its power source. So far, the technology of this place had seemed equivalent to late nineteenth or early twentieth century Earth, with a few notable exceptions, the Agent’s huge blaster being one of those.

Rodney slept on and off, waking each time colder and more tightly curled until his limbs ached. He didn’t know if John was asleep, but he too seemed to be curled into a tight ball against the cold. The night passed in brief dozing and shivering wakefulness until grey light began to seep in through the tiny rectangular opening, high in the cell wall and round the edges of the blinds that covered the street windows. Rodney got up stiffly and used the bucket in the corner of the cell, watching the steam rise in the frigid air. There was a gasp from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and turned to see John curled on the edge of his bed, breathing in sharp, pained bursts.

“What’s wrong? Sheppard!” He knelt down and put his hands on John’s shoulders, feeling the muscles rigid and trembling. John shook his head and gasped another harsh breath. “Is it your ribs? Broken ribs? Oh, God, you’ve punctured a lung, haven’t you? What do I do?”

John shook his head and a harsh, “No!” burst out between gritted teeth. “Just -” He broke off and his breath hitched sharply again. “Hurts.” Another hitch. His arms were around his waist, pressed tightly to his stomach. His breath continued to jerk as he slowly uncurled, his face a contorted grimace, his eyes crunching more tightly at each gasping jolt. Rodney stayed kneeling before him, helpless in the face of his friend’s agony. Slowly it subsided and John’s breathing slowed. His arms relaxed. He opened his eyes and wiped sweat from his brow.

“What the hell was that?” Rodney tried to suppress the fear in his voice.

"It’s nothing.”

“Oh, no way. No. Not the ‘I'm fine’ routine.” Rodney pushed himself up off the floor and dropped heavily onto the cot behind him. “I repeat, ‘What the hell was that?’”

“It’s not that bad, usually.”

“Usually? Like this is a regular thing for you? Not just because you took a few gut punches yesterday?”

“They didn’t help, that’s for sure.”

“What then?” Rodney snapped his fingers. “Jennifer. You came out of Jennifer’s office. What did she give you? What’s wrong? Stomach ulcers? IBS? Not cancer! It’s cancer, isn't it? Tell me!”

“Rodney, calm down.” John linked his hands behind his neck and moved his head around, easing out kinks.

“What, then?”

“Look, I’ve been having some trouble with old injuries, that’s all. It’s just, you know, what you get when you’ve taken a few knocks. Like I said, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. What’ve you been taking? What’s Jennifer got you on?”

“Some painkillers… muscle relaxants sometimes.”

“Why haven’t you told me? Does Teyla know? Does Ronon?”

John looked at him, wearily. “Rodney, there’s nothing to tell. Nothing you don’t already know.” He sighed. “Think about it. Great long piece of rebar? Wraith tendril? Ring any bells?”

“But you recovered from those. You were fine.”

“Yeah, I recovered, up to a point. But, the injuries themselves and then the surgery they had to do to sort out stuff inside…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Scar tissue, nerve damage. It’s just what you get.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“It’s no big deal. The muscles go into spasm. It’s worse first thing in the morning, or when it’s cold.”

“Or when you’ve been punched in the stomach a few times.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“So, were you heading for a desk job anyway? Even before they decided to declassify?”

“Yeah, well. Jennifer said we could try to manage it, see how it went, but we both knew…”

“What, she’d class you as unfit for active duty? Surely you just need some more intensive physio or something and a bit more time. Injuries like that can take a while, especially if nerves have been damaged. There’s no way you’re unfit! And Jennifer knows you’d hate a desk job.”

“I guess she’s just trying to do her best. Making sure whoever’s in charge is fit and ready to throw themselves into the next suicidal situation.”

“Well that shouldn’t all fall on your shoulders. You shouldn’t be like Kirk - going on every single away mission when he should maybe delegate a few, We should reorganise. Maybe we’ve had to carry too much for too long. It’s taken its toll on all of us. Anyway, you need painkillers. And we don’t have any.”

“I don’t need them. I can manage without.” He stood up and gradually straightened out, massaging his abdomen with one hand. “There you see, good to go.”

“Go where?” Rodney muttered.

The deputy, who had had his feet up on the desk and his hat tipped over his eyes, suddenly jerked, snorted and sat up, yawning. He glanced over at John and Rodney.

Rodney’s stomach growled. “Hey, any chance of some breakfast?”

The deputy grunted, shrugged and got up from his chair. He used a cloth to pick up the pot that had been stewing on top of the brazier all night and poured out three mugs full. He slid two of them beneath the bars of the cell and followed them with a tin plate which held two thick slices of bread. The hot drink proved to be an extremely orange, extremely bitter version of the latcha they’d had in the diner. The bread was stale, but not mouldy. Rodney ate and drank and felt marginally better, although his jaw hurt along with all his other bruises and he really wanted a shower and some clean clothes.

The Agent arrived, sneered in their direction and dismissed the deputy. John and Rodney lay on their cots with nothing to do but wait.

The door opened.

“Ma Kennet,” greeted the Agent, with something approaching a smile. “You’re out early this morning. No takers for breakfast?”

The owner of the diner was clad in stiffly buttoned-up, shining black, her dark brown hair piled up in some way that Rodney thought defied the laws of physics, with a tiny, feathered hat perched on top, describing x equals y from the origin of her forehead. “There’s plenty of takers, thank you, Agent Cherring, but my niece is serving this morning.”

“Herna? She’s grown up a fine girl. Where’s that boy of yours? Still up in Teksa'corani getting an education?”

“That he is, Agent.” She nodded at the cell. “Those the two that caused the rumpus in the saloon?”

“That’s them,” replied the Agent. “They’ll be for the culling in Symona.”

“Well, now Agent Cherring, I’ve a proposal for you in that direction. You see, those two came in my diner yesterday, and I have to confess I took quite a shine to them.”

Rodney looked at John, whose face reflected his confusion; he didn’t recall any ‘shine’ being involved, on her side at least, although Sheppard had seemed ready and willing to dive into another Kirk routine. And ‘Ma’ Kennet’s self-bestowed title didn’t suit her at all, Rodney thought. In fact, he wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find her soft brown eyes gazing into John’s changeable hazel-green with very little in the way of maternal feeling, at some point in the very near future.

“Did you, now?”

“I did. I’ve a feeling they’re more in the nature of unwitting victims than criminals, being the newcomers in town. I remember when _I_ was a newcomer to this town and some folks weren’t so welcoming. It’s not easy being new.”

“That it isn’t. But these two don’t have travel permits. And there was a whole heap of trouble in the saloon.”

“The damage was all paid for, by what I hear. And you yourself could issue them with permits.”

This was clearly a capable woman who got what she wanted.

“I could,” said the Agent, grudgingly. “That isn’t to say I will.”

Ma Kennet reached into a drawstring bag that dangled from one wrist. She drew out a leather wallet, unfolded it and riffled through the contents suggestively.

“That’s a tidy sum you’ve got there, Ma Kennet. You shouldn’t be carrying that much around the town.”

The lady regarded the tight wad of notes, played over them with her thumb once more and then looked directly at the Agent. “How much?”

oOo

“Why?” John limped stiffly after their rescuer, who strode ahead of them like a flagship in full sail. “Why did you pay him off?”

“You just follow along, Mr _Smith_. I think you’d be best out from under the Agent’s eye before he changes his mind.” Her tone left no doubt of her opinion of his alias.

John looked at the document clutched in his hand and folded it up and stuffed it in his pocket. He and Rodney followed the rustling silk and stiff-feathered Sunday-best hat down a narrow alley to one side of the diner and in, through the back door. They entered a kitchen-cum-sitting room, lined with cupboards and shelves, with a sturdy wooden table squarely in the centre. But it was the fire burning brightly in a small grate that John was drawn to, and its two flanking battered armchairs. 

Lara Kennet unpinned her hat. “You two just sit yourselves down while I go and change out of this rig.” She smiled and looked down at her long black skirts. “It does for weddings, funerals and buying the freedom of criminals, but practical it ain’t.”

She disappeared through an inner door and her footsteps could be heard clumping up the stairs.

Rodney sat down and held his hands out to the fire. John hesitated, looking at the back door. “Sit down, Sheppard. Where are we going to go?”

John sat, grateful for the warmth and the cushioned seat. “She wants something from us.”

“Maybe she just wants something from you."

"McKay!"

"Oh well. I don’t care what she wants. We’re out of that jail, no longer in danger of the local version of summary execution and, what’s more -” He broke off to sniff the savoury scented air. “We’re in line for a decent meal.”

John’s stomach grumbled in agreement. He relaxed back into the chair and, despite his hunger, he felt his eyelids droop.

He jerked awake at the rattle of crockery. A tray was placed on his lap.

“I thought you’d best eat back here rather than in the diner. There’ll be some folks not happy if they see you out and about after last night.”

“Yeah, thanks,” said John. Muffled agreement came from Rodney’s direction, through vigorous, appreciative chewing. 'Ma' Kennet’s aggressively respectable outfit had gone, to be replaced by a brown, workaday dress and apron, surmounted by a soft knitted shawl. Some of her hair was still pinned up at the sides, but the rest fell down her back in a long braid. Women always seemed to be able to do that; to add as many years to their appearance as they thought suited the occasion. 

Lara Kennet seemed much more at ease in her current outfit; efficient and capable, but less stiff, less guarded. And very generous with her portions of food. John ate. There were eggs, some kind of fried, minced meat, cubes of something that might have been mushrooms and plenty of toasted bread, solid and filling and shiny with melted butter. And there was more latcha - freshly made this time - which John found quite pleasant compared to the noxious brew they’d been served in the jail.

He watched Lara haul a large tin bath in through the door and set it down in front of the fire, followed by a stack of towels and a bar of soap in a tin mug. She’d rolled up her sleeves and strands of hair had already worked their way free of her shining braid. Her hands were rough from work, but he thought that, if he touched her, the skin on her arms would be soft and smooth, particularly on the inside, up toward the crook of her elbow.

She disappeared through the swing door into the diner and came back with a huge pan of water that she tipped into the bath.

Rodney had made a meat and egg-filled sandwich. It paused halfway to his mouth. “Is that for us?”

“Well it ain’t for me nor Herna,” Lara replied.

“Oh.”

She took the pan away, came back with another which was tipped into the bath, then she went outside where the sound of vigorous pumping could be heard, before she heaved a pail of cold water in through the door and tipped that in too. She stood, wiping her hands on her hips, wisps of hair framing her face.

“There. Who's first?”

The two men looked at each other.

“Oh, I won’t stay and watch! Not that I haven’t seen it all before, so I don’t know why you’re sitting there looking like a couple of shy maids. I’ll go and sort out some of my late husband’s stuff for you to wear.” She departed and her quick, determined tread could be heard on the stairs once more.

“You can go first, while it’s hot,” said Rodney.

“Don’t you want to get in, while it’s clean?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s weird. Having a bath in someone’s kitchen. I bet she comes back just as I’m getting in. Or out.”

John looked down at his dusty, blood-stained clothes. It would be embarrassing if Lara came back in, particularly if he’d been thinking about her and… Well, anyways, he was grimy and gritty, itchy and sore. “Yeah, whatever.” He put his tray on the table, stripped off his boots and clothes and stepped into the bath, slowly lowering himself into the hot water. He sighed as the heat penetrated his aching muscles. He opened his eyes and, through the steam, saw that Rodney was watching him, his face troubled. “What?”

His friend glanced down. John folded his arms, protectively.

“I didn’t realise,” Rodney said. “I mean, I knew you had scars, but I didn’t think… Well, they’re just scars, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, well, like I said… stiffness, nerve damage. That’s just what you get.” He picked up the soap and began to wash.

oOo

Rodney was quite pleased with his outfit. He had on some loose tan-coloured pants and a red checked shirt, and he’d laid claim to a fringed, thigh-length coat, which would give him a nice Davy Crockett vibe, but without the furry hat-with-a-tail; that was a level of authenticity he could well do without. John looked like a lumberjack in a checked shirt and jeans. He sat at the table, scowling while their hostess probed his scalp.

“Are you going to tell us why you’re helping us?” John asked.

“Maybe it’s out of the goodness of my heart,” she said. She took a small tube from her medical supplies and squeezed some of the contents on John’s scalp.

“What’s that?”

“Glue. There. You’re done.” She descended on Rodney, turning his head into the light to see the cut above his temple. “That looks shallow enough,” she said.

“Are these your son’s clothes?” Rodney asked.

“Oh, no, these were my late husband’s. They’d be too big for Ferdan.” She paused and her hands, stowing her medical kit back in the box, slowed. “I think they would, anyway. It’s been a while since I saw him.”

“He’s in Teksa’corani? At school?”

She sat down. “Well, now, that’s brought us to the heart of the matter, hasn’t it?” She looked at John and then at Rodney, then pulled out another chair. “Come and sit over here. I doubt anyone’d hear, but I’d feel safer with our heads together.”

Rodney transferred himself from the armchair to a seat at the table.

“What’s this all about, Mrs Kennet?” John asked. “What do you want from us?”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50837304338/in/dateposted-public/)

“Call me Lara,” she replied. “Now, see, before I tell you what I want, let’s just get something straight. You’re off-worlders. There’s no point denying it.”

“Like I told you, er, Lara. We rode in from the hills.”

“No, you didn’t. See, even a babe that’s just learnt to walk knows what a grennet is. And you didn’t. And beneath that dust, maybe your clothes are plain, but they’re not fabric I’ve come across too often, unless it’s come from trading off-world. Added to that there’s the fact you didn’t have permits, which none but a fool goes travelling without, unless they’re going to steer well clear of a town with a Wraith Agent. And then there’s the Carrier.”

“Carrier?” echoed Rodney.

“See, that’s another word you’d know. Reapers, you see those often enough, usually in pairs, flying here and there when the Agents call them in. But the bigger ones, the carriers, you hardly ever see and yet one flew low over the hills yesterday and then straight up into the blue. What that means, I couldn’t say. Could be you’re spies sent to catch us out and you’re gonna report back to the high-ups back in Teksa’corani. My guess, and judging by your ignorance, is that there’s something else going on. Something you don’t want the Agents to know about, much less the high-ups and definitely not the Wraith.”

“Why didn’t you tell the Agent?” John asked. “Surely that’s what a good citizen would have done?”

“Now that’s just set the seal on my suspicions,” she said, smiling with grim satisfaction. “A good citizen? You might hear such talk in the big towns from the wealthy folk, or from the Agents, but the rest of us would struggle with that. Those of us who know how this society really works know that you have your ‘good citizen’ face for the street and another behind your closed doors. I’m one of the lucky ones, having married my Harden, who came from well-off folk, but for most it’s a hard life and just one step away from those shacks on the edge of town. And they’re just another small step away from a jail cell and the scaffold. That’s how this world works. If you’re one of the old families, the high-ups, living up there in Teksa’corani, then you’re all safe and snug, ain’t you? For everyone else, you better work hard and watch your back, because sure as hell the Agents are watching; watching for any little slip, any little unpaid debt or petty theft of food to feed your kids or fuel to heat your home. ’Cause there’s always room on the scaffold for one more.”

There was silence. The fire cracked and spat and a log shifted. 

Lara sighed. “It’s a cold wind from Teksa’corani,” she said.

“It was freezing last night,” agreed Rodney.

“No, that’s what we say. ‘It’s a cold wind from Teksa’corani’. The Gate’s there and the Wraith, and the corruption blows across the world like the wind over the plains.” She rose and tended to the fire. 

Her words had been bleak. She had painted a picture of a suppressed world; a world where the Wraith were feared rather than worshipped, where humans, once again, were the victims and, once again, had turned on each other, rich against poor, strong against weak, in order to sustain an unequal, unjust society. Strangely, Rodney felt his fear ease. Surely on such a world, it was more likely that they’d find help and friendship rather than Wraith-worshipping fanatics who’d turn them in to the authorities?

“You paid a lot for us,” said John. “You put yourself out there, put yourself at risk.”

“I did,” she replied.

“Why?”

Lara opened a cupboard, took out a barrel-shaped tin and sat back down again, removing the lid and pushing the tin toward the two men. Rodney reached in and took out a rough-textured, dull beige cookie. 

“I did it for my son.”

“Who’s not in Teksa’corani?” John guessed. He took a cookie as well.

“No. He’s in the hills somewhere.”

The cookie was dry, a little salty, and gritty bits of grain stuck between Rodney’s teeth. It reminded him of a Scottish oatcake. “In the hills? What for?”

“Like I said, it’s a hard life trying to stay on the right side of the Agents. There’s many that decide it’s not worth the fight and they might as well get started on the crime, if they’re being driven that way.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50838075866/in/dateposted-public/)

“What, he’s an outlaw?” Rodney wondered how old Lara was; hardly old enough to have a grown up turned-to-crime son. He needed a drink. The cookie seemed to have absorbed all of his saliva. He coughed.

“I haven’t heard from him since last winter, but that’s what his aim was. He just upped and went one day. Left me a note and that was that.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I was so young when I had him. It’s almost like we grew up together, and I’m worried about him. I miss him.”

John cleared his throat and swallowed. He set the rest of his cookie down on the table. “And you’re covering for him with the Agent?”

“I’m trying to. Told him I wanted Ferdan to have a decent education, be able to leave this place and make something of himself.”

“Well, that’s plausible, isn’t it?” said Rodney. “It doesn’t seem like a place you’d want to stay if you could get out.” John frowned at him. “Oh, I’m sure it’s… er… very nice.”

Lara didn’t seem to have noticed his disparaging comment. She stared down at the table and shook her head. “No, you’re right. It’s not plausible, not really. The schools up there don’t want to take folk from round here. You’d have to pay more than I could afford and even then he would’ve had to be one of the very best, the very brightest; and my Ferdan, well he’s not dull but he doesn’t shine that way. The high-ups don’t want us educated. They want us kept in our place, on the edge, so with a hard winter here, some bad luck there, plenty’ll go right over that edge and straight to the scaffold.” She reached for the tin and took a cookie. “There, I’ve told you my trouble. Let’s hear yours.”

Rodney looked at John. John shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Come on. I already know you’re not from this world. I know you had nothing with you, so you’re not here by choice. I know the Wraith carrier dropped you in the hills. So, I’m guessing you want to get to the Gate and find your way home, wherever that might be. Tell me your names to begin with,” she said, “Not those made-up ones.” She bit into her cookie and watched them, intently.

“Okay, I’m John Sheppard, this is Rodney McKay. And you’ve pretty much guessed the situation. There’s not much more to tell.”

“Tell it anyway.” Lara swallowed her bit of cookie and coughed.

“We’re traders,” said Rodney.

“Yeah, traders,” John continued. “And we went to a meeting.”

“To trade.” Rodney nodded, encouragingly.

“And some of our, er, our competitors kidnapped us and dumped us here.”

“Really,” Lara said, flatly.

John’s eyebrows rose slightly as if daring her to disbelieve one so patently innocent. Rodney did his best to match the expression.

Lara shook her head, but her frown was tolerant. “Maybe we haven’t got to know each other well enough, yet.” She transferred her frown to the half-cookie in her hand. “Dry, aren’t they? You’re both very polite. I don’t think I could choke a whole one down.” She stood up. “I’ll get us some latcha and then I’ll tell you my proposal.”

oOo

It was as John had expected. “You want your son brought back, before he gets caught.”

“And before Agent Cherring suspects anything, yes.”

“Will he come?”

“He’ll come when he hears about the full jail in Symona. They sent hunting parties up into the hills, Wraith-led. Actual Wraith, when they never used to come here, apart from those that fly over. Maybe you could’ve got away with that life a couple of years ago, but not now. For some reason the Wraith are getting pretty desperate.”

John could think of several reasons, but kept them to himself.

“What’s in it for us?”

“Your freedom’s in it for you - and your permits - both of which cost me a fair few hundred chets. And there’ll be the mounts and provisions to afford.”

“Mounts and provisions? What’s to stop us just taking off? Heading for Teksa’corani? You know that’s where we really want to go.”

Lara smiled. “Why nothing’s to stop you. Except me.”

Rodney choked on his cookie, despite the accompanying latcha. “You’re coming?”

“What, you think I’m not capable of riding a grennet? I’ve nearly headed up there on my own a couple of times, only a lone traveller’s a target for man as well as beast. I just need an escort that won’t talk and you’re it.” She took a long drink of her latcha, watching them over the rim of her mug.

“D’you know where he is?”

“I know a few places he’s likely to be. I worked a grennet ranch with my husband for ten years, til he died of the summer fever; I’m no stranger to the ways through the hills and the hidden places up there.” She drained her mug and put the lid back on the tin. “That’s settled, then. Now, you’ll need to lay low today and I’m guessing you didn’t get much sleep last night anyway. I’ll show you Ferdan’s room. You stay in there and we’ll leave after nightfall and be well away by first light.”

oOo

It felt good to be on the move. It felt even better to have weapons to hand. John patted the butt of the rifle in his saddle-holster and touched the sidearm at his belt. They were old and primitive, but had been kept in good order. He’d try them when they were well away from the town, see what kind of range and accuracy they had.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50838027201/in/dateposted-public/)

The sun was rising behind the hills, but they rode still in the cold shadows of night. Turning in his saddle, the leather creaking, John could just see tiny pricks of lantern light far behind and below, on the edge of the plain. His mount scrambled up a rise and he adjusted his position, leaning forward and swaying loosely from side to side with the movement beneath him. He glanced up the slope at Rodney, who followed behind Lara. Rodney had mounted with extreme and obvious trepidation but had soon relaxed when he felt the enclosing shape of the saddle and the smooth, soft gait of the grennet. He’d even let go his death-grip on the pommel and his hands looked relaxed on the reins.

It had of course crossed John’s mind that, now armed and provisioned, they could simply overcome Lara and ride off directly to Teksa’corani. It could be seen as their duty, in fact, to return to Atlantis as soon as possible. But, apart from the revolt of his conscience at such a thought, John knew they were safer with Lara, at least for now. She knew the hills, knew the places to find water, the wildlife they were likely to encounter, knew the ways and customs of this world. And they were on the move - north, whereas the Gate was to the northeast, but this would do for now.

Light touched Rodney’s back and outlined Lara’s form as she turned her grennet to follow the curve of the hill. He pictured her as she’d been back at the diner, checking her weapons for the journey. She was an interesting, capable woman, able to manage her firearms and her mount as well as she managed her kitchen and her customers. And she had known loss; her husband had died when she was still young and she’d carried on, selling up their ranch and making a new life for herself and her son in the town. She reminded him a little of Teyla; when Lara Kennet looked at him with her calmly assessing brown eyes, it was if she could see right through him. 

But what did she see? What did any woman see? Did they see the horrors behind his eyes? The mistakes he had made, the lives he couldn't save? Was that why he was alone?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50838111877/in/dateposted-public/)

They rode on into the dawn, stopping only briefly for a hurried breakfast and a brew of latcha to warm their chilled hands. John tried his weapons. The rifle held ten rounds and seemed to be good for a range of two hundred yards. It pulled to the left slightly and he adjusted the sights. The pistol held nine rounds. It could raise chips of rock at going on for a hundred yards, but was only accurate less than half of that distance. Rodney was carrying a wraith stunner rifle, which he gave a quick test-fire on Lara’s direction.

“That’s been in my husband’s family for many years. They say a reaper crashed once and it was taken from that, but it’s not been fired in a long time.”

The weapon worked and Rodney returned it to his saddle holster.

The sun rose higher and even with the fresh mountain breeze John felt sweat running down the side of his face. He took off his leather jacket, tied it up with his bed roll and pulled the brim of his hat down further to reduce the glare. The terrain became more rocky and contorted. They rode in a narrow defile between towering curves of sandy-coloured rock.

He called ahead. “Is this the best route? Looks like ambush country.”

“You’re right there.” Lara’s voice echoed back from the rocky walls. “But it’s outlaws we’re trying to find, so it makes sense.”

“Oh, great, so if we get set upon and murdered I’ll put that down as a win.” Rodney drank thirstily from his canteen, poured some water into his hand and splashed it over his face and neck. “And if outlaws don’t get us, there’s the heat and the sunburn, so at least we’ve got a choice of grizzly deaths.”

John kept one hand on his reins and the other on his sidearm. The rock was nearly white with the glare of the midday sun, and the clattering of the grennets’ hooves was magnified and distorted so that it sounded like they were surrounded. 

Rodney’s voice continued. “...really need my factor one hundred. There’s probably snakes as well. And scorpions.”

A shot rang out and rock chips flew from the wall above John’s head and his weapon was in his hand, his body twisting to find the source of the shot.

“Halt! Drop your weapons!”

“Do it,” said Lara.

John hesitated, his grip tightening on his pistol. Another shot blasted close by. Lara’s rifle fell to the rocky floor. John nodded at Rodney, who let his stunner fall and John’s weapons followed his companions’ to the ground. The scrape of hooves came from the path ahead and a single figure rounded the corner; a man, bearded but young, his broad-brimmed hat tipped to the back of his head. John’s shoulders prickled and he looked up. Faces emerged to either side and behind; there was no way out.

The man spoke. “Either you folks are stupid or… No, there’s no two ways about it. You must be just plain dumb. This ain’t no place for a family picnic.”

“I’m looking for my son.”

“Why? You lost him hereabouts?”

“I live down in Gulderren. He left, end of last winter, to come up here and join you folks.”

The man leant forward on his saddle, resting on his crossed arms. His mount’s head drooped as the animal appeared to doze. “Ain’t been nobody new come up here this year. ‘Part from the Agents, and we ain’t hung around to be caught by them. Could be you’re spies, working for the lawmen.”

“No. My son came up here. His name’s Ferdan. Ferdan Kennet.”

The man shook his head, but from overhead a voice called out. “There’s a Dan Kennet in the High Plains gang, could be him.”

“Oh, yes, that’ll be my son. Do you know where we can find the High Plains gang?”

“My guess is the High Plains, Ma’am, but we don’t know where they go to ground and we wouldn’t tell you if we did.”

John’s mount shifted uneasily beneath him. The outlaw’s appearance was relaxed, but he had the upper hand.

“Well, we’ll just be cutting along then. And thanking you kindly for your help.”

“No.” The face smiled, the voice was hard.

John edged his Grennet forward. “We don’t mean any harm. I’m sure you could see your way clear to letting us pass by.”

“And I’m sure I couldn’t. Like I say, you could be working for the Agents.”

“But we’re not, I told you, I just want to find my son,” Lara protested. “We’re not spies, we’re on your side.”

“There ain’t no sides. You’ve found our bolt-hole and we’re set up nicely here for the winter, apart from one last job to see us through, right men?” There was a rumbled chorus of agreement from the rest of the outlaws. “If we let you go, you could tell the Agents about us. So, maybe we’ll just keep ourselves safe by finishing you now.”

There was a click of weapons being readied. John glanced back down the defile. They could turn and run. He could urge Rodney and Lara ahead of him, maybe take the bullets that were meant for them. Why had he dropped his weapons? Why had he allowed them to get into this situation in the first place?

“Don’t do this!” Lara pleaded.

The outlaw raised his pistol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tense moment! How are they going to get out of this one? Find out next Tuesday!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate any comments or reviews - even the smallest smidgeon of a comment or the tiniest little kudos will make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,  
> Thank you for all your kind comments so far - please keep them coming! I love to hear what you think.
> 
> So, Rodney, John and Lara are surrounded by outlaws. How are they going to get out of this one? On with the action...

“No!” Rodney heard his own voice ring out, cutting through the tension. He forced down his terror and folded his arms tightly across his chest, thrusting out his chin in what he hoped looked like cool defiance. “You won’t shoot us. Not when you know who we are.”

“McKay,” John warned. 

“Who are you then?” The outlaw held his pistol, square and steady, ready to shoot if he didn’t like Rodney’s answer.

Rodney sneered, lip curled, one eyebrow raised. “ _I’m_ Butch McKay,” he announced. “And _that’s_ Johnny Sundance.”

“Who?”

A derisive laugh seemed appropriate; Rodney managed one, very creditably, he thought. “What kind of a tin-pot outfit are you running here? Anyone who’s anyone in the outlaw world has heard of us! The eastern line train robbery? The bank at Devil’s Gulch?”

“I don’t know nothing about them and I ain’t never even heard of no Devil’s Gulch.”

“Well, that just shows the level of your ignorance, doesn’t it?” Rodney felt his confidence grow. “And you’re proposing to shoot us. When if you had even the most basic level of common sense, you’d be on your knees begging us to join your amateurish little gang.”

A voice called from above. “Sounds like a heap o’ grennetshit to me, boss!”

“You don’t look like no outlaws,” said the boss.

“Well, that’s all you know.” Rodney recalled his alien poker game and an idea occurred. “Sundance can shoot a sun out of a card at two hundred paces. That’s how he got his name.”

Laughter and cat-calls fluttered through the canyon.

The boss-man’s pistol dropped slightly. “I’d sure like to see that. And how about you, Mr Fancy-talker? What’s your line?”

“Me?” Rodney let his eyes narrow dangerously. “I’m the explosives expert.”

oOo

They had been brought to a hidden valley amongst the high rocky peaks, remote and difficult to access, yet still in the foothills of the range. The sun had lowered, but retained its midday heat, beating down on John’s back, where he lay, full-length on the baked-hard ground. He closed his eyes and listened, allowing his senses to sink into his surroundings, to feel the air around him. There was no wind, not even a breath to stir his damp hair, although he guessed at night it would whip across the top of the valley and curl and howl in amongst the crags.

A booted foot shifted, the scrunch of grit loud in the still air. Someone coughed. John tipped his hat further back on his head and squinted down the barrel of the rifle, which rested on a steady rock. The brown, dusty floor of the valley stretched before him and, although John had shot at targets two hundred yards distant, it seemed impossibly far. 

The playing card was big and there was a fat yellow sun at its centre, but two hundred paces, without telescopic sights, without a modern, reliable hunting rifle? What had McKay been thinking? Of course, he’d been thinking of saving their lives. Surrounded by outlaws about to blast them into a world from which there was no return, Rodney had come up with something that would at least delay the inevitable and, if John could pull it off, would earn them their right to continued life; if he could pull it off.

He let the weapon drop away from his eye and adjusted his position, bending one knee out to the side and shifting until he felt solid and grounded. Then he raised the rifle again, fitting the stock snugly into his shoulder, settling his hands around the weapon, letting the barrel become an extension of his body. The hard ground scraped his elbows where his shirtsleeves were rolled up, but he ignored the irritation. 

He breathed in slowly and then out. His finger curled around the trigger.

Another breath in, another slowly out and then, in that soft, still moment between breaths, he gently squeezed.

The gun slammed back into John’s shoulder and the boom ricocheted around the valley, bouncing and rolling and gradually fading to a distant fluttering clap.

“Did he hit it?”

A figure ran to the target, picked it up and jumped in the air, the whooping holler proclaiming a hit.

John's head sagged. He would have liked to let his chest fall to the warm rock, rest his head on his arm and take a nap. Instead, he remained impassive, made sure the gun was safe and then climbed to his feet, nodding at the congratulations and acknowledging the buffeting slaps on his back, with indifferent composure.

Lara smiled at him. “Well done.”

John felt his chest puff out a little and his lips curled irrepressibly into an answering smile. So much for playing it cool.

“That’s some mighty pretty shooting, Sundance.” The boss outlaw held out his hand.

“Just call me John.” They shook hands.

“The name’s Korda. I’m in charge here.”

“Yes, we’d realised that,” said Rodney.

The young outlaw cast an appraising glance at Rodney. “And what do I call you, ‘Butch McKay’?”

“Oh, er, well you could go with Butch. That’d be fine.”

“When are we going to have a demonstration of your skills, Butch?”

Rodney reverted to his reliable irritable bluster mode. “Yes, well, unfortunately I didn’t bring any of my equipment with me. This was just meant to be a retrieval mission, after all.”

“In that case, we’ll need Beddows.” Korda raised his voice. “Hey, Beddows, get your ass over here. Bring your box.”

Beddows proved to be a massive hulking figure, but by the way he moved, he looked to be pretty light on his feet. John decided that under no circumstances would he want to fight this man. He carried a crate in his heavily muscled arms, which he set down with great care and precision, as if he were handling a newborn baby. He lifted the hinged lid and eased it open slowly. John thought he caught the hint of a _sotto voce_ croon.

The huge man shuffled to one side, but stayed kneeling on the ground, hovering protectively over his treasure.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, then.” Rodney glanced down into the box. His nose twitched. He looked at John and John didn’t like the sudden pallor of Rodney’s face or the tautness about his mouth.

“Mc… er ‘Butch’?” He took a step forward, but Rodney’s hand stopped him. A faint, sweet scent drifted from the box, tinged with the bitterness of burning.

“Come on, then, get on with it,” Korda urged.

Rodney lowered himself slowly to the ground. “Okay, so, this is an interesting little assortment you’ve got here. You’ve been using this? Carrying it around with you?”

Beddows stroked the side of the case in a smooth caressing motion. He nodded gently.

“Well, you’ve got the right idea, at least. ‘Don’t wake the baby’.” Rodney’s laugh was hollow. He reached into the box and shifted some of the contents with the tip of one finger. There were paper-wrapped blocks, stained with yellowing blotches, as well as coiled lengths of wire and a cluster of thin tubes made of card or maybe wood. “What’s this?” He picked up a leather draw-string pouch gingerly, opened it, peered at the contents and hissed. Then he sat back on his heels, wiping his fingers on his pants.

“Well?”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still here. One jolt and that whole lot’ll blow. You’ve got some kind of ancient degrading dynamite there, weeping nitroglycerin. And that grey powder in the pouch? What d’you use that for?”

Beddows stroked the narrow tubes. “I slips just a leetle in one of these here,” he said, softly. “Then I pushes it into a boom-block and sticks in some nice long, long wires. Then, I gets my power pack and wraps the ends of the wires round and round.” He smiled, beatifically. “And when I press my switch…” He puffed out his cheeks and his arms erupted in slow-motion. “Nice.”

“‘Boom-block’?” Rodney winced. “Yes, very nice, no doubt. It sounds like you’re the proud owner of some mercury fulminate.” Rodney stood up and backed away. “It’s obvious your man knows his stuff, in a limited way. Well, when I say obvious, he’s not dead. Yet. And, yes, of _course_ I could blow up some rocks for you with this lot, as a demonstration of my knowledge.”

“Put it away now, Beddows.” Korda rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as Beddows smoothly closed the lid and tiptoed away with his precious cargo. “See, Beddows knows how to blow things up alright. But he sometimes makes a bigger bang than we’re after. The last job we did, he blew up the whole railroad car.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so what we really need is someone who can control that stuff.”

“I’m not sure that anyone could control _that_ particular stuff.”

“Well, if you want to earn your place in the gang, that’s what you’ll do.”

“We’d prefer to be on our way, Mr Korda.” Lara spoke up. “We’re no threat to you.”

“Maybe not, but I could use a sharpshooter and someone to handle the explosives.”

John didn’t like the way the discussion was heading. “What’ve you got in mind, Korda?”

Korda ushered them to a cluster of rocks around a campfire. They sat down and one of the outlaws gave out the usual over-stewed latcha. Korda took a long draught of the lukewarm brew. “We’re gonna pull one more job before winter sets in,” he explained. “A train job.” 

Rodney was obviously struggling to maintain his ‘Butch McKay’ image. “A train robbery? You want us to help rob a train?”

“Why not? A coupla renowned outlaws such as yourselves wouldn't have a problem with that, now would they?”

“There’s no problem,” said John. “But we’ve got Mrs Kennet’s son to find. And then we’ve got business in Teksa’corani. Business that can’t wait.”

“It’ll have to wait, cos you ain’t leaving. Not until you’ve done the job and then you’ll be one of us.” Korda glared at them each in turn, his hand straying close to his pistol. John returned his gaze impassively and neither Lara nor Rodney protested further. “In two days time, when the train sets out from Symona, it’ll be carrying gold from all the banks on that line. That's the train for us.”

oOo

There were caves in the rocky walls of the valley and when night began to fall the outlaws retreated to them and formed small clusters around a variety of fires and heaters. Some used firewood, though trees were few and far between, whereas some used a type of solid chemical fuel and others, and by far the most sensible arrangement in Rodney’s opinion, used solar power stored up in the long, bright days.

Even with the warmth from their heater, Rodney was cold. “What are we doing here, Sheppard?”

“Surviving, _Butch_.” John was curled up beneath his blanket, as close to the fire as he could get.

“Should’ve packed more blankets.” Lara wriggled closer to the heater. “It’s been a long time since I camped out.”

“Do they really stay up here all winter?” Rodney shuffled closer to his friend. “It must snow.”

Lara nodded. “They’d be snowed in. They must have a good stock of supplies in these caves.”

“I think I’d stay in town and take my chances with the Wraith.” Rodney squeezed the tip of his nose, which was numb with cold. “How are we going to get out of this whole train robbing thing?”

“I don’t think we are,” said John. “We’ll just have to go along with it for now and wait for a chance to get away.”

Rodney sat up and leant closer to his friend. “We can’t do it, Sheppard. Not if they’re going to be shooting at people. Well, when I say people, if there’re any Wraith, then fine, let’s shoot. But we can’t hold up a train. We can’t shoot people who are just doing their job.”

“No.”

“So what’re we going to do?”

“Just go along with it. I’ll think of something.”

“You’ll think of something. Right.” Rodney lay down on his back, then squirmed onto his side and curled up, shivering. “I’m freezing.”

“Mmm.”

Rodney sat up again. “This is no good. We’re all cold and you’re going to be in agony if you sleep like this, Sheppard.”

Lara sat up too. “What’s that? Are you hurt, John?”

“I’m fine.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Rodney -”

Rodney ignored John and told Lara the problem.

“My Harden’s leg used to stiffen up like that, after he had a bad fall one time from breaking the wild grennets.” She looked at John with concern and picked up her blanket. “We should get together, nice and snug. We’ll all be better off sleeping close, anyhow.” 

Her concern was genuine, but Rodney wondered if Lara’s motives were entirely pure. Although, he reflected, as he shuffled closer to his friend, it would have been more unusual for any woman _not_ to want to snuggle up close to John Sheppard. “You come in front and I’ll go behind, like a sandwich,” he said.

“You don’t need to -”

“Yes we do. Shut up and let someone else do the protecting for a change.”

The night deepened and Rodney’s back was cold, but his front was warm and his arm stretched over John’s body so that his fingertips rested on Lara’s shoulder.

“We used to sleep like this on the drives,” Lara murmured. “Each year when we’d take some of the stock up north to sell.”

“We have horses back home,” said John. “Was it a good life, ranching?”

“It was a safe life. Hard, when I was first wed, but I got to like it. And Harden was a good man. Older than me.”

“I suppose your choices were pretty limited,” said Rodney. “Oh. I didn’t mean that. I mean I did, but not that no one else would have you or that -”

“No, you’re right. My family had nothing: my Pa gone to the scaffold and no work to be had for a young girl, or not such work as you’d want. Harden meant safety for me. And I grew to love him. And then I had Ferdan. Everything I’ve done since Harden died has been for my son.”

Lara lapsed into silence. John shivered and Rodney pulled himself closer, shutting out the draft that wormed its way between them. Was it night on Atlantis? Yes, still night, he calculated, although moving toward dawn. Jennifer would be alone. Alone and frightened for him, while pretending, even to herself, to be optimistic, reassuring herself that Rodney would be found and would come back to her. 

And he would come back. But what then? Lara had chosen safety; a chance for a secure family life - a rare thing on this dangerous world. Did Jennifer represent safety for Rodney, or had she chosen him for that reason? Was he her safe option? How much did she love the real Rodney McKay? Or did she just expect to grow to love him and have children to compensate for any lack? Or to change him into someone she could love? She wanted him to be more ‘conciliatory’; she wanted to be the centre of his attention, and for him to let others take on the burden of scientific discovery. But he enjoyed being abrasive - that was part of the whole Rodney McKay persona. And scientific discovery wasn’t a burden - it was a constant wonder.

They’d have to talk, when he got back. Really talk. He’d have to set an agenda and write bullet points or he’d lose track of his feelings as if they were slippery slivers of soap. He much preferred the hard-edged dovetailing of concrete scientific fact.

Rodney shivered and realised John had curled further toward Lara. He fitted himself to his friend, becoming a congruent curving shape.

He slept.

oOo

The bank car, Korda had explained, had a flat top with barriers round the edge, so that guards could be stationed up there, ready to shoot anyone unwise enough to approach. It was John’s job to take out the guards, preferably before they came within range to shoot the outlaws in return. John had nodded and accepted his role, as if murdering bank employees was all in a day's work. Once the guards were out of the way, the outlaws would storm the train, holding up the driver and forcing him to bring the whole thing to a halt. Rodney would then blow the doors off the armoured bank car, in a small, controlled explosion and then any guards inside could be disposed of and the contents extracted.

This, of course, could not be allowed to happen. The theft of the gold he could accept, but the loss of life he couldn’t. Still, lying full length on the bluff that overlooked the railroad, his rifle resting firmly on a rock in front of him, John had been unable to come up with a plan that would result in a successful robbery, and therefore continuing life and possibly freedom for himself and his companions, without compromising his duty to protect the innocent.

“She’ll be coming soon,” remarked Kelv, who had been designated his assistant, or rather the man who’d shoot him if he tried to run or failed in his role.

John didn’t reply. He kept his eye on the track, over the sights of his rifle and wondered what the hell he was going to do.

oOo

“Slowly!” Rodney’s heart was in his throat. The wagon jolted again and he winced and looked over his shoulder. Beddows grinned up at him, his hand resting on one of the small wooden crates that now held the explosives, packaged separately at Rodney’s insistence. Next to Beddows was a cylindrical object with two projections, one at each edge of its upper surface. It was a type of battery, of unknown provenance, picked up in a theft from a bank vault. Beddows used it as the power source for his detonators. The wagon lurched again. “Can’t you make this thing go more smoothly? Avoid the bumps or something?”

Lara, the bunch of reins in her hands leading to four grennets, shot him a look of irritation. “No. I can’t.”

The wagon crawled, lurched and bumped on. What was Sheppard doing? He’d be there, up above them, on the rise of land that they were circling, out of view of the railroad. The outlaws would already be in place, further down the line where the land opened out, waiting to ambush the train after John had picked off the guards. Except he wouldn’t. Would he? Although, what choice would he have? What choice did Rodney have? He had his stunner back, so he could take care of Beddows, but the riders set to watch him would immediately retaliate. He checked over his shoulder. They were a good distance back. Within range to take an accurate pot shot, but safe enough if the jolting the explosives were receiving resulted in disaster.

The wagon lurched on.

oOo

“Hear that?” Kelv held a hand up to his ear. “She’s a-comin’.”

A faint whistle drifted on the wind and slowly a rhythmic puffing and rattling rose, louder and louder, until around the curve of the track came the train, the engine’s great funnel belching smoke as it struggled up the gradient.

“There she comes. You get ready now.” Kelv crouched well back, his pistol in his hand. John could have risked jumping him, but then what? What about Lara and Rodney? He couldn’t go up against the whole gang to rescue them.

The train came closer.

“Bank car’s the last one,” said Kelv. “You’ll be able to see it soon, with the guards on top.”

The wind tugged at John’s hair. It’d be a tricky shot, even if he did take it; the moving targets, the sidewind, the sun in his eyes. But he couldn’t take the shot.

“There. There they are. See ‘em?”

“I see them.” John sighted down the barrel. The last car was just in range, heading straight for them before the line curved slightly around the bluff. There was a man at the nearer end and another, obscured, at the far end. If he was going to shoot, he should do it now.

“Go on, then. Do it!”

He couldn’t. His finger wouldn’t curl around the trigger. He couldn’t do it.

“Sundance, shoot!”

Images flashed through John’s mind. The car with the guards on the roof, the curving railtrack, the sharp drop off the bluff toward it. How high was he? How high above the line? The train moved on, the engine disappearing to their left, behind the rocky shelter, the cars following, one by one, hidden by the lie of the land.

“You’ve missed it! You’ve missed your chance, you -”

“I’ve got a better idea.” John grabbed the rifle and ran.

“No! Stop!”

Pistol-shots rang out, chips of rock flew up around him. John kept running toward the cliff edge. He felt a burn across the top of his left shoulder and then the land began to fall away, gradually at first, so that he saw the engine to his left, shadowed by the cliff, then more steeply so that he could see the cars streaming past below. He halted his headlong flight, poised on his toes. Then he leapt.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50851920243/in/dateposted-public/)

The guard looked up at the last second, too late to raise his weapon. John’s chest slammed into the man’s face, flattening him to the roof of the car and knocking all the air out of John’s lungs. The second guard reacted, swinging his rifle toward John and letting fly one round, which pinged off the metal plating, next to John’s head. He lurched to his feet and brought his own rifle swinging round wildly, to knock the barrel of the other man’s weapon aside, his second shot ricocheting off the rocky wall that sped past in a blur of red and brown. Straight away the guard worked the lever to bring another round into place, but John, with both hands on the barrel of his weapon, swung it round again, hitting the guard’s hand with a crunch. The guard’s weapon fell, but then the car gave a lurch to one side and John was thrown against the barrier, his upper body hanging over the edge, the ground a rushing torrent beneath him. He felt a crushing weight against his hips and then the other man was trying to push him over. John thrust the butt of his weapon backward, beneath his arm and was rewarded by a cry of pain. He pushed away from the barrier, received a heavy blow on his jaw and retaliated with a thrust of the barrel into the guard’s stomach. His opponent doubled over, then reached for his own discarded weapon. Too late. John brought the rifle-butt down on the back of his head and he slumped, unconscious, to the deck.

The train rattled on. John staggered, turned, checked the man he’d knocked out by his fall; still unconscious. He threw the guard’s weapons over the side and then ran to the front edge of the car and looked down into the gap. There was no platform at the end of the bank car, only a very narrow ledge, but there was a wide, canopied shelf on the passenger car in front. John dropped his rifle, bent his knees, crouched down as far as he could and sprang. His outstretched hands slammed into the canopy of the car in front and he gripped hard, despite the burning, stinging pain. Then he swung his legs beneath, hooked them over the railing and slithered down onto the platform. 

He wanted to rest, to catch his breath in relative safety, but there was no time. He climbed back over the railing and gripped the pin that ran through the coupling, holding the cars together. He pulled. It didn’t budge, but he vaguely registered a frantic tapping at the window in the back of the passenger car. John planted one foot on the ledge at the front of the bank car and another on the lower edge of the railing, straddling the gap. Then he gripped the iron pin and pulled. It slipped, grated and then came free and immediately John felt his stance widen as the bank car’s speed began to slacken. 

John’s legs were suddenly stretched; he was losing his balance. He caught a glimpse of a horrified face pressed to the passenger car window, then he dropped the pin, lurched for the bank car and clung to the side, his toes balanced on the narrow ledge, barely a couple of inches wide. His fingers spread out, searching for something to grip on the hard metal of the armoured car. There were only some large rivets, nothing to hold, just enough so that he could spread his arms wide and gain a bare minimum of traction by curling his fingertips over the curved bulges. His legs were trembling, his fingers slipping, his sweat lubricating the grey, painted surface. He couldn’t hold on, he couldn’t, he was going to fall, to drop to the tracks and fall beneath the crushing wheels of the bank car. He closed his eyes.

He fell.

He fell onto the wooden cross-ties and sharp stones and cried out in pain, and then there was darkness and silence. John blinked. He was in pain, which meant he wasn’t dead, but it was dark and he blinked again.

“Sheppard! John! Oh God, he’s dead! He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“McKay?”

“John? He’s alive. Someone, help me get him out!”

John felt himself gripped under his shoulders and was pulled, painfully, over the rail, out from beneath the bank car and into the sun.

oOo

Korda had cursed violently when the train had emerged from behind the rocky bluff without the bank car attached. There had been confusion and anger and Rodney had kept as still and quiet as possible, in case the anger was turned on him. Then the bank car had trundled out, slowing rapidly, a spread-eagled figure clinging to its front. Korda had waved his men forward and Rodney and Lara had followed more slowly, respecting their highly dangerous cargo.

They had pulled up next to the line just in time to see John slither down from his perch and the railcar come to a halt over his inert form.

“Hey, Rodney,” John croaked. His squinting eyes closed and he groaned. He had a graze on his jaw and there was blood surrounding a tear on the shoulder of his jacket.

Lara knelt beside him and moved the fabric aside to assess the wound.

“What the hell was that, Sundance?” Korda nudged him with the toe of his boot, incurring a glare from Lara. John winced, then managed to raise a smirk.

“Change of plan, Korda.”

“We had a plan, and it’s not up to you to change it.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Worked? What d’you think’ll happen when the train pulls into Dry Creek? The Agent there’ll raise a posse and be after us within the hour!” Korda’s boot poked at John again, near his wounded shoulder.

“Leave him alone!”

“Get up and do your job, Butch! Get that car open!”

Rodney reluctantly stood up. “Help me get him into the wagon first.”

“No, the woman can see to him.”

“Excuse me!” Lara stood and squared up to Korda, her hands on her hips. “‘The woman’ has a name! Mrs Kennet to you!”

Korda drew his pistol and levelled it at Lara. “You keep your mouth shut, and you!” He turned to Rodney. “Do your job!”

Rodney gritted his teeth and turned away, assessing the bank car’s armoured doors. The sides were smooth, constructed of heavy gauge metal plating, but this planet’s engineering had only taken them a limited way. The car had sliding doors, such as you might find on a standard wooden model. He could blow one off its rollers with little trouble. He turned to find that Beddows had already lifted out his crates and was crouched over them, apparently giving them a pep talk. “Hey, Goliath. Yes, you. Give me one of the smaller blocks.”

The rest of the outlaws and the wagon containing John and Lara, moved well away as Rodney set up the explosive at the bottom edge of the roller door. He snapped his fingers for a detonator and pressed it carefully into the dynamite. A coil of wire was handed to him before he could ask and he felt Beddows’ hot, eager breath on the back of his neck. “A little space, please?” The breath disappeared.

“This is good, ain’t it? This is the best bit of outlawin’.”

“If you say so.” Happy with the connection, Rodney began unspooling the wire.

“Here. Stop here,” Beddows encourage.

“What, are you kidding?” Rodney continued to unspool the wire.

Beddows grumbled mutinously. “It’s better up close.”

“Mmm, yes, I can see the attraction,” he said, sarcastically. “I’m surprised you’re not stone deaf. This is far enough.”

Korda’s voice rang out behind him. “You fixing to blow that thing sometime today?”

“Yes, nearly ready,” Rodney replied wearily.

“Don’t wait for the smoke to clear, men. Get straight in there as soon as she blows!”

“You wouldn’t want to miss the fun,” muttered Rodney. The ends of the wire fastened to the battery terminals, Rodney called out, “Fire in the hole!” and pressed the switch.

There was a brief flash and a split second later a ringing boom reached Rodney’s ears and the side of the car disappeared in rolling clouds of smoke.

Beddows whimpered in disappointment. “Too small,” he said.

“Just right,” said Rodney, watching the outlaws rush toward the car. The smoke began to clear and a gaping black hole could be seen where the door had been, the frame distorted by the force of the blast. “So, how many guards will there be inside? They’ll be knocked out, won’t they?”

Shots rang out as some of the outlaws fired into the car, but none were returned.

“Or maybe there aren’t any guards inside.” Rodney made his way over to where Lara had parked the wagon. John was sitting next to her, supporting his left arm with his right, watching the progress of the robbery intently. He saw John tense suddenly, his eyes widening, and Rodney spun round to see that the smoke had cleared completely and, framed by the hole he’d blown in the car was a tall, undaunted, faceless figure. “A drone! A Wraith drone!” Another loomed behind him and then both, despite the barrage of fire from the outlaws, jumped coolly out.

The whine of stunner fire filled the air as the Wraith fired into the outlaws, striding inexorably forward, bringing down men and grennets alike. They took multiple hits, but were not deterred and the gang began to give way, some turning their mounts and charging away, only to be brought down by stunner fire.

“McKay!”

“What? What can we do?”

“We have to kill them. They’ll get a signal back to a hive, or to the Gate. They’ll come after us.” John snatched up Lara’s rifle, stood up and began to fire.

Rodney drew his pistol, fired several shots in panic and then threw it down. He didn’t realise what he was doing until he’d jumped up into the bed of the wagon and pulled out the drawstring bag.

“Rodney, they’re coming!”

“I know!” He slid down from the back of the wagon, knowing he’d have to run, knowing and cringing and dreading, but just doing what had to be done. He began to walk, then jog.

“McKay! What’re you doing?”

“M- mercury f- fulminate!” he bleated, terrified of his own actions, terrified of the heroic streak that seemed to kick in despite any fear or common sense. He ran, through the panicking grennets, toward the wraith drones and their stunners, and as he ran he let the bag fall to the full extent of its long strings and then drew back his arm and swung once, bringing his arm in past his head to tighten the arc and increase the speed, then back again, wide, and at that critical point he snapped his wrist forward and released the whole thing, hurling it toward the drones. Rodney skidded to a halt, but let his momentum carry him down and his body slammed full-length into the ground. There was a huge, whumping flash and bang and the force and the heat rushed over his back. As soon as it had passed he scrambled to his feet, ears ringing, and staggered away, holding his breath against the noxious mercurial vapours.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50852735252/in/dateposted-public/)

His ears buzzed and his vision spun and it wasn’t until someone grabbed his arm that he realised he was leaning against the wagon.

“Get in!”

John was reaching down to him, shouting, his voice strangely faint. Rodney rubbed his ears.

“Get in! We’re going!”

This sounded like a good plan, but then John’s face became hard and he looked over Rodney’s shoulder. It was Korda, his lips moving, but no sound coming out. The levelled weapon made his point clear and the outlaws assembling behind him backed him up. It looked like they weren’t going anywhere without the gold and its escort.

oOo

Over half of the gang had been stunned and lay on the ground, slowly stirring, sitting up and rubbing painfully tingling limbs. John had no sympathy for them. His body was telling him to join them, to just lie down on the ground, but Korda had other ideas.

“C’mon, get moving!” Korda’s grennet shifted nervously beneath him as he glared up the line into the distance.

John took another gold bar from Rodney, who crouched at the opening of the railcar. He adjusted his grip on the heavy block, glancing above. Had the guards regained consciousness? Would they have the sense to stay out of the way?

“Hurry up!”

He carried the bar over to the wagon and slid it into the bed. The bullet graze burned and his back ached, but he trudged back to the car, waited for the outlaw in line ahead of him to move out of the way, and accepted another bar, his muscles now screaming for rest.

“That’s all of them,” Rodney said.

“You sure?”

“They’re the big, shiny, yellow ones, right?” snapped Rodney. “Yes, of course I’m sure!”

Korda scowled and drew his pistol. “Seems like you two are more trouble than you’re worth. Especially you.” The barrel turned toward John, fixing him like a deadly eye.

“You’ve got your gold,” said John. “And Butch blew the wraith away.”

“I don’t like my plans being changed.” The pistol clicked as the hammer drew back.

“You put that thing away, Mr Korda.” Lara held the wraith stunner in a competent grip, standing up in the wagon, one knee braced on the driving seat. “We’ve done our part. I think it’s time you let us go.”

The outlaws backed away, forming a circle around the scene. John’s hand hovered over his holster. 

Korda sneered. “You think you can draw that faster than I can fire, Sundance? You go right ahead.”

“Back off, Korda or I’ll stun the rest of your men.”

“Drop your weapons! All of you!” The order came from above and John looked up to see the barrel of his discarded rifle projecting over the barrier at the edge of the roof. The guards had woken up.

“You didn’t kill them!” roared Korda.

John dived to one side as Korda’s pistol roared. The rifle boomed above him and shots rang out to all sides as the outlaws began to fire. He scrambled beneath the wheels of the car, bullets zinging off the rail next to him and took cover behind the wheel, hoping Rodney had had the sense to stay safely behind the armour-plating. 

The whine of the wraith stunner formed a background for the pistol and rifle shots as Lara defended herself. John couldn’t leave her out there, alone. He risked a look, a bullet pinging off the wheel next to his face, but then he saw Korda wheel his mount around and aim his weapon directly at Lara, who stood boldly as the wraith stunner threw out its lightning pulses. John fired and Korda flinched, blood springing out on one arm. Korda’s grennet thundered past and then turned again and his weapon rose. John scrambled out from behind the wheel and took aim at Korda, but before he could fire, a heavy weight slammed him down into the dirt. John kicked and writhed, expecting more blows to fall, but it was a dead weight upon him and he struggled out from beneath, recognising one of the guards, his limbs slack in death.

Then all around there was firing and thundering confusion. The wagon was there, but he couldn’t see Lara. Dust swirled in the air as grennets flashed past, turned and dodged. A rider John didn’t recognise fought one of the outlaws, both leaning out of their saddles, trying to bring their guns to bear. From above, two men fell, thumping into the dirt beside John, one lying still, the other staggering up and limping away into the melee. 

Who were they fighting? The posse; it must be the posse from Dry Creek.

“John!” 

He spun round. A hand reached out of the bank car. John took the hand, grabbed the metal frame and jumped, flinging a leg up to one side and half rolling, half vaulting into the car. He pushed Rodney in further and commando-crawled his way into the dark, sheltered corner, then leant against the side of the car, catching his breath, the armoured sides ringing with the impact of bullets. 

“What the hell’s happening out there?”

“What?” Rodney shouted and rubbed his ears, still suffering the effect of his explosion. “Sheppard, what’s happening?”

“I think it’s the posse.”

“We need to get out of here,” said Rodney. His eyes darted round the car, as if searching for a back door.

“Lara’s out there. I’m not leaving her.” John reloaded his pistol. He crawled to the door, and leant against the twisted frame, his weapon gripped firmly in both hands. They couldn’t be caught. As outlaws, there’d be no chances to escape, no offers of reprieve. They’d be taken, locked up and then… Then there would only be the scaffold and the culling beam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! They’re trapped! Another cliffhanger for our daring duo! Find out what happens next on Friday…
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos! The writing’s all done, but kind readers will give me energy to create more art!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We left John and Rodney trapped in the bank car as chaos erupted around them. But who is attacking? Is it the posse from Dry Creek? And what has happened to Lara?

The shots became sporadic and then stopped altogether. What was happening? Had the outlaws won? Or had the posse subdued them? There were shouts and the shuffling beat of hooves on the ground. Rodney’s eyes were wide in the gloom.

“John? Rodney?” It was Lara’s voice.

John put his head out, then moved fully into the doorframe. Lara was mounted on a grennet, her arms wrapped around a grinning young man, whose strong brows and straight nose echoed her own.

She smiled. “This is my boy. This is Ferdan.”

oOo

Ferdan’s gang had scattered, dividing the gold between the grennets, small groups disappearing to all points of the compass. John snatched up the reins of a straying animal and gave McKay a leg-up, then caught a grennet for himself, as well as retrieving a rifle from a fallen outlaw. The posse would be coming.

Lara and Ferdan, each now mounted separately, kicked their grennets away in a plume of dust and John and Rodney followed. The grennets, even at speed, had a smooth, undulating action, but even so, John was concerned for Rodney, who had seemed dazed after his attack on the wraith drones. As they rode, however, his concern transferred to his own state and he began to be genuinely worried that he wouldn’t be able to sustain the pace of their headlong flight. His drop from the cliff had left him battered, and then he’d followed that up with a frantic fight with the remaining guard, a leap between railcars, a fall onto the track and, oh yes, there was that bullet that had grazed his shoulder. Everything hurt and he tensed against the pain, which made it worse, as well as making it harder to ride, and impossible to keep his body loose and roll with the motion of the animal.

He held on and gritted his teeth. They rode straight out, over the railroad, past the rocky bluff and into the wide, flat plain. At first John thought this was foolish and that the posse from Dry Creek, surely now close by, would be able to see them and follow. But, glancing back over his shoulder he realised that the land undulated and that they were hidden from view. Ferdan turned his mount south, back toward Symona.

The grennets ran on, over the dry, scrubby grassland, leaping tiny creeks and weaving in amongst scattered stands of thornbushes. John’s breath rasped in his lungs and he gripped the pommel of the saddle tightly, not making any attempt to guide his mount, who seemed happy to follow the animals in front. Rodney was a hunched form in the cloud of dust ahead, rocking from side to side with his grennet’s rolling gait.

They changed direction and the ground began to rise once more. The grennets slowed, their sides heaving, breath blowing hard from wide nostrils. John sagged as his mount finally dropped to a walk and he realised it was picking its way over the railroad track. It began to jog again on more even ground, but the gradient soon slowed its pace once more and the animal’s neck stretched forward and down as it pulled hard, hooves skidding on a steep, rocky slope.

They entered a narrow path between high shoulders of rock, thorn bushes obscuring its entrance. It wound tightly back and forth, barely wide enough for the grennets to squeeze through, and too deep for sunlight to penetrate. John shivered. He let go of the pommel with his left hand and tucked it into his jacket to try to relieve the burning ache in his shoulder.

His thoughts drifted and he no longer thought about their destination, the posse thundering behind them, the gold, the rival outlaw gangs. He closed his eyes and was aware only of the movement of the saddle, his hand gripping the pommel and the relentless, grinding pain in his body.

And then there was only the pain and his grip and he mustn’t let go, even when something pulled at his fingers. He wouldn’t, couldn’t let go, though he couldn’t remember why not.

“John.”

His fingers were cold, maybe they were frozen in place.

“John.”

Something warm covered them. And he was so surprised at that one point of warmth in the darkness and cold and pain, that he opened his eyes.

Lara looked up at him, her face golden in a lantern’s glow. “John, let go.”

He let go, and fell toward the light.

oOo

“Is he alright?”

Lara pulled out a chair from the long wooden table and sank into it wearily. Her lips moved but Rodney couldn’t catch the words.

“What?”

“Yes.” Her mouth opened wider. “He’s asleep.”

Rodney would have liked further clarification, but Lara looked as exhausted as he felt and he decided not to put either of them through the shouting and pantomiming. His hearing was returning. It was, he reassured himself. He scooped up another forkful of whatever the grey, lumpy stuff was, chewed and swallowed. He could hear the churning sounds of his own eating more than he could hear what Ferdan and Lara were talking about as they ate.

There was a draft behind him - another member of the gang at the door of the little cabin, reporting in. He rumbled at Ferdan, who rumbled in return, then he tipped his hat at Lara and left. They must have other cabins in this hidden valley; a snug little hideout, much nicer than the caves where Korda and his gang spent the winter. Rodney wondered what had happened to Korda. There had been bodies scattered in the dirt, all around, when Rodney had ridden away, but he hadn’t seen Korda’s. He’d ask. When he could hear the answer.

Rodney’s head jerked. He’d been falling asleep over his empty plate. The table jogged under his arm and there were more muffled voices. Lara was consoling the disconsolate Beddows, who’d been brought in like a lost sheep by one of the gang. He seemed to be accepted without suspicion, even though the battle with Korda’s group had been intense and brutal. Perhaps a tame explosives expert was worth having, although he wasn’t much use without his precious kit and it was obvious from his head-down-on-the-table sorrow that it had been left behind. Lara patted him on the back, then her eye caught Rodney’s and she gestured at her face. He shrugged in response. She rolled her eyes and went through the door at the back of the main room and returned carrying a bowl of water and a cloth. She sat down next to him.

Rodney put a hand up to his cheek. “Ow.” Oh. His cheek felt tender and there was a crust of dried blood on his chin. And really, it wasn’t surprising, he thought, remembering his face-plant into the ground when he’d thrown his improvised bomb.

She gently tipped his face toward the lantern light and began wiping the scrapes and painfully removing small pieces of grit. He tried to keep still and not flinch away from her ministrations.

Rodney closed his eyes and thought. They’d started in Gulderren and travelled north and slightly west. Then they’d moved east to meet the railroad. But then their headlong flight had taken them south and they’d crossed the track again, although he didn’t think they’d travelled as far south as to take them past Symona. Gulderren was, he thought, south and west of Symona. So, they hadn’t quite travelled in a circle, but maybe a kind of spiral.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50863151297/in/dateposted-public/)

Something touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes. Lara pointed to the door through which John had been carried following their confusing arrival of milling grennets and outlaws, darkness and lamplight, and dragging weariness.

Rodney followed her to the small room where John lay on a wooden cot. An oil lamp stood on the tiny nightstand, turned down to a dim glow. His friend lay on his side, his face pale and shadowed with bruises and exhaustion. The blankets had been pulled up to his neck, so Rodney couldn’t see his injuries. He looked at Lara, who smiled and nodded reassuringly. She gestured apologetically at a heap of animal skins and blankets on the floor and he nodded in return and tried to raise a smile but was too tired. Obviously, beds were at a premium. He hoped he wouldn’t have to share his animal skins with Beddows.

Lara left and Rodney thought about keeping his clothes on, but the room wasn’t that cold, so he undressed down to his underwear and crawled into the nest of softness. He looked up at John, but could only see the tip of his nose and his fingers poking out from beneath the blanket. He thought about prodding his friend or maybe jogging the cot accidentally, just so they could exchange eye-rolls and smirks and rueful grimaces that would mean ‘I’m okay’ and ‘when are we ever going to get home?’. Instead, he fell asleep.

oOo

John had woken early because of the cold, grey light which easily penetrated the thin curtain, and because he was too uncomfortable to carry on sleeping. His shoulder throbbed and as he eased himself upright, his bruised and battered muscles shrieked in protest so that he had to grit his teeth and concentrate on breathing slowly. He made it to his feet, stepped carefully over the sleeping Rodney and dressed, holding the pain within, building a wall around it until he could keep it from showing on his face. A square of fabric had been left on top of the nightstand, which he guessed was for a sling. One-handed, he folded it in half, then in half again, tied it awkwardly where the knot looked about right and pulled it round his neck and over his arm. The knot was too slack, but it would do.

When he emerged, Lara, building up the fire, looked at him shrewdly, but said nothing. He sat down at the table and concentrated on looking ‘fine’. A bowl of grainy porridge appeared before him and he ate.

“You should go back to bed.”

“I’m good.”

Lara snorted and continued to set her stitches in the shoulder of John’s jacket, which she was patching. She sat in an armchair by the fire and it crossed John’s mind that armchairs by fires were one thing that Atlantis lacked.

He finished the porridge and stood up carefully. Tiredness dragged at his shoulders, but he never liked sleeping in the mornings. He stooped to peer through the low window, his bruised back protesting. There was frost on the window pane, but the light outside was bright and a slope of rime-edged grass dotted with small trees fell toward a creek. A draft crept in around the window frame and John’s nose twitched at the clear freshness.

“I’m still mending your coat. Take the blanket.”

John followed Lara's gaze to the red and orange knitted blanket on the back of one of the armchairs. He sneered at it. Lara’s stitches paused. She glared. John picked the blanket up and tried to drape it round his shoulders like a shawl, hampered by the sling. It fell off. He huffed impatiently and began to take his arm out of the sling, whereupon Lara put down her stitching, and got up. She drew the sling back round his arm, tightening up the knot, and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, crossing it at the front.

John looked at Lara's hands, which had retained their grip on the folds of blanket. Why didn't she let it go? He didn't need to be fussed over. 

"You're a hard man to help, John Sheppard."

His eyes flew up to hers but there was too much compassion in her gaze. He looked at the fire. Still she didn't let go.

"Some folk, when they're hurt or in trouble, they look outward for others to help them. You go inward, don't you? You shut off and close up and manage on your own."

He knew it to be true; a tried and tested strategy on which he constantly relied.

"Who did you lose, John? Who did you lose to make you shut down like that?" She let go then, abruptly, her arms falling to her sides. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business, and certainly not my business to be forcing -"

"My mom. I lost my mom."

"Oh." Her hand rose toward his face, then fell once more. "Were you very young?"

He shrugged.

"And there was no one to help you?"

"I managed."

"Yes. You did. But you shouldn't have had to."

He shrugged again, looking down at the hearth rug, made of old strips of rag. A gentle touch brushed the fall of his hair back from his forehead. It had needed cutting even before the Coalition meeting.

Lara sat down and picked up his jacket. "It doesn't make you weak, to need help sometimes. And when someone offers help it doesn't mean it's because you're a burden or that the help is grudged."

"It did. It did then."

"I'm sorry about that. Sorry you were hurt. I -" She broke off. "You have people who care about you now, though, don't you? I can tell Rodney cares."

"Yeah, my team. And others."

"And do you let them help?"

"I try."

John looked up. The firelight shone on Lara’s upturned face, waking golden flecks in her steady brown eyes; eyes that seemed to see within him, to the things that he hid, but did not turn away from him in disappointment or horror. “Why’d you call it that?” he said. “The diner. Why’d you call it ‘Ma’ Kennet’s?”

“I’m a mother.”

“Yeah, but it makes you sound old.”

She shrugged and gave a small, regretful grimace. “Maybe I don’t want folks to think of me as young. Maybe I’d rather keep my independence than have a flock of menfolk hanging around wanting to marry me for my business.” 

Lara’s features had tensed up and her lips had thinned. They usually had a slight upward curve at the corners, even when she wasn’t smiling. When had he noticed that?

“Not _just_ for the diner.”

“Maybe not.” Her eyes fell but then rose again to his. “I thought you were going outside.”

“Yeah. I was.” He smiled.

“Go on then.” There was that upward curve, and it continued to grow, matching John’s smile, except his was probably as goofy as usual and hers was… what? 

An eyebrow rose.

“Going,” he said.

Outside, the air was every bit as clear and fresh as he’d hoped. John stood on the verandah and breathed it in, trying to ignore the protest of all those muscles involved in deep breathing, which seemed like far more than was reasonable.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50863151162/in/dateposted-public/)

He stepped down from the verandah. The ground in front was churned up by the hooves of many animals and he trod carefully on the areas which looked less slickly treacherous; a fall would be no fun at all. A breeze rustled the leaves on the trees around him as he made his way down the slope and long, thin, yellow leaves fluttered and fell. There was a figure by the river bank, his bare feet actually in the water, which had to be freezing cold.

“Hey, Beddows.”

“Hullo, John.” Beddows remained staring into the shallow, burbling stream.

“Lost your kit?”

“Left it behind.” He kicked his feet, sending up sad little splashes.

“You can get more.” No response. “So, uh… These guys are okay with you? They killed most of Korda’s gang.”

Beddows shrugged. “I rid with Korda. I rid with Ben Flanner down past Symona.” He paused. “I rid with Trex and before him with Jennet. Now I’m with Ferdan’s gang.”

“Oh.”

Beddows turned and a brief smile flickered on his lips. “They all like blowin’ stuff up, see?”

“Yeah, I see,” said John, truthfully. He considered what he might say that would help. “You’d like C4.”

“What’s that?”

John told him.

oOo

Rodney stood on the verandah and curled his hands round his mug of latcha, as tendrils of sleep still curled round his sluggish mind. It occurred to him that he’d heard Lara’s offer, and when he’d accepted the drink had heard his own voice, so that was a definite improvement. His face was sore and his body stiff, but a night and part of a morning’s sleep had seen improvements there too.

His breath plumed out in the cold air. Where was John? When Rodney had woken to find the cot empty he’d expected to find John maybe huddled by the fire, or at best, propped up at the table. He hadn’t expected him to have tottered out for a morning run. Or maybe not a run. The figure making its way up the slope from the creek, clad in a lurid red and orange blanket, looked like it might be regretting its sortie.

“Sheppard.”

“Hey, Rodney.”

“Cold?”

John shivered.

“Go inside,” said Rodney. “Idiot,” he added.

He followed John into the cabin and saw him installed, in fact huddled, by the fire with a hot mug of latcha. Rodney sat down at the table, where Lara had just set down a plate of biscuits; except they weren’t biscuits, because they seemed flattened, as if they’d been cooked in a pan. She put a crock of butter on the table.

“Help yourself.” The words were only slightly muffled. He took a biscuit.

The door opened and Ferdan entered.

“Ah, everyone’s up,” he said. “I’d thought you’d be abed longer. Havin’ had a rough time and not being so young and all.”

Rodney met John’s eyes with horror. “We’re not that old!”

“No offence meant!" Ferdan dropped his head forward so that his sandy bangs hid his eyes. "Uh… are those biscuits?”

“They are,” said Lara, repressively, “and you’d best sit and put one in your mouth, young man.”

“Uh, yes, Ma.” He sat and drew the piled plate and the crock of butter toward him.

Lara buttered two of the biscuits and passed them to John. He looked up and thanked her with a smile and Rodney drew in a breath to denounce his friend’s incurable habit of Kirking his wares around the galaxy. Then he let it out slowly and, instead of beginning a dramatically exaggerated roll, his eyes narrowed. He couldn’t put his finger on the difference, but there was a certain sincerity in John’s expression; his eyes lacked the usual playful ‘let’s get it on’ gleam and his smile, though characteristically crooked, was small and soft and, for a change, Rodney didn’t expect to hear the hollow ping of a movie-star twinkle.

Lara moved away and John picked up one of the biscuits. He addressed Ferdan. “I, er, I didn’t say thanks yesterday. For the rescue.”

Ferdan grinned. “Worked out pretty good, didn’t it?” He continued to talk and eat at the same time. “See, we heard about the Symona train carrying all that gold. And I thought, Korda’ll have a go and maybe Ben Flanner. So then I figured, why not let someone else do the work?”

“Sounds like a good plan,” said John.

“It worked out just fine. If it’d been just us, taking on those Wraith…” Ferdan whistled. “Phew. That was one lucky escape.”

“It may have been lucky for you,” said Rodney. “For us the outcome hinged on some rather basic chemistry.”

“And guts, Rodney,” said John, waving his half-eaten biscuit. “Don’t forget that.”

Rodney hummed to express dismissal of his bravery.

"You c'n have a share," said Ferdan, splitting and buttering another biscuit.

Rodney eyed the biscuit plate, doubtfully. At this rate fair shares were looking most unlikely. 

"Of the gold," Ferdan clarified. "There's plenty to go round."

"Wow, er thanks," said John. "That's pretty cool, eh, Rodney?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "I mean, yes, thank you, but what do we actually do with it? It's not as if you can hand it over a counter in exchange for cookies, is it? And I'm assuming taking it to a bank would be a bad idea, bearing in mind the ants' nest of law enforcement that'll have erupted since we robbed the train."

"You're right there," said Ferdan, layering on a mound of yellow butter. "I've had words with the men, and what we'll do is share out the cash from our season's outlawin', so we c'n spend that now, and we'll keep the gold sitting quiet til things have died down a bit."

"You can buy yourself a suit of clothes such as you'da been wearing up in Teksa'corani," said Lara. "And then come home with me, and the Agent none the wiser to your outlawin'."

There was a tense silence. John stared at his plate, his face shuttered, emotion retreating behind his usual mask.

Ferdan set down the biscuit he'd been buttering and played with the knife. “I’m not coming back, Ma.”

“Not coming back? But the search parties, the Agents, the Wraith, Ferdy! They’ll find you, they’ll bring you in.”

“I can’t Ma, I can’t go back. There’s nothing for me in Gulderren.”

“You can help me and Herna in the diner. Or maybe there’s a job at the bank.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the life for me and you know it.”

“Where will you go?”

“We’ll go west. Further west, further from Teksa’corani and the Wraith.”

“Nowhere’s far enough away from the Wraith.”

“You could come with us, Ma. We’ve got gold, we don’t have to do no more outlawin’.”

“I’d have to leave the diner. And I’ve got no permit, and neither have you.”

“I’ve got a man skilled with a pen. Skilled enough to forge permits.”

She turned away toward the kitchen, then turned back, her eyes resting briefly on John before returning to her son. "I don't know, Ferdy. I just don't know."

oOo

John did very little for the rest of that day. He dozed in front of the fire until Lara chivvied him back to bed, then, having slept for a while, he spent some time sitting at the table eating everything she put in front of him.

“They’d miss you, in Gulderren,” he said, gesturing at his plate of stew.

Lara shook her head. “Herna could take over. She’s more than ready. And it’d mean she can marry where she chooses. If she chooses.”

“You’ve chosen your son.”

Lara sat down. “I always will.”

“You could do something for yourself.”

“What can I do? It’s enough of a risk going with Ferdan, and I’ve never been one for taking a chance, taking a risk. Risks get you killed round here.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You take risks all the time, don’t you? You haven’t told me your full story, John. No! I’m not asking you to, if you don’t want. But I can tell. It’s how you live. And I’m not saying it’s wrong or that you take risks when you don’t have to.”

“I try to save lives. But people die anyway.”

“We all fail sometimes, John. Sooner or later, we all fail. It doesn’t mean you have to keep paying, until you pay with your own life.”

“Sometimes it feels that way.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “I can’t take risks and you can’t stop.”

“Maybe we should both take a chance. Do things differently for once.”

“I can’t leave my son.”

“No.” He pushed the handle of his spoon with one finger. It rasped against the edge of the pottery bowl. “And I can’t ask you to come with us. With me.”

Lara pulled the empty bowl toward her and stood up. She looked down as if reading his fortune in the dregs of his stew. “One day, John... one day, will you stop? Will you stop putting yourself in danger and let others take over?”

“Maybe.” He fiddled with the loose threads at the edge of his sling. “And, uh, one day, maybe you could take a chance? Do something for yourself?”

“Maybe.”

Lara took his bowl out to the kitchen. 

The following morning John woke with very little more than his usual stiffness and, once he had stretched out a few kinks, he went through to the main room, to find Rodney sitting at the table with two gold bars and a pile of notes and coins in front of him. 

“Is that ours?” John pulled out a chair and sat down.

“It is,” said Rodney, stroking one of the gold bars admiringly. “And even though these aren’t going to be the easiest currency to dispose of, you have to admire their inherent… er…”

“Coolness?”

Rodney smirked impishly. “They are cool, aren’t they? All those bank-heist movies, where they have an elaborate plan…”

“Which always goes wrong.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes they get away.”

“We have.”

“So far.” Rodney scooped up the coins and dropped them into a leather pouch, then folded up the paper money and pushed that in too.

John eased out his left arm, massaging his shoulder gingerly. He wouldn’t need the sling today. “How much have we got?”

“Four hundred and sixty-seven chets.”

“Not bad.”

“No,” agreed Rodney. “Ferdan says the gold bars are worth thousands each, but we’d only get that if we took it to a bank.”

“Which we can’t.”

“No. But I’ve got a few ideas there.”

“Which are?”

“Well, who would have gold? Apart from a bank?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. A mint?”

“No, go the other way down the production line.”

“Oh. A gold miner. What, we sell gold to a gold miner? Isn’t that like selling ice to eskimos?”

“No. Think about it. They’ll have all the contacts and be more than willing to get their hands on some gold without having to do all the work.”

“I don’t know, Rodney. Why should they pay for it when they can dig it out of the ground?”

“Because it’s not so easy to just dig it out of the ground. We’d have to take a hit as far as its value’s concerned, but as long as we get enough to take us to Teksa’corani, that doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I guess not.”

The door opened and Lara entered, followed by Ferdan. Lara was tight-lipped and went straight through to the kitchen. The chink of crockery and the clang of an iron pan made John’s stomach rumble.

Ferdan threw a couple of logs on the fire and then sat down at the table.

“We’ll be heading out at first light tomorrow,” he said.

John glanced toward the kitchen.

“She’s agreed to come with me.” Ferdan rubbed his lower lip, thoughtfully. “And now she’s agreed, I don’t know whether that’s the right thing or not. Maybe we’d be better off back in Gulderren.”

“It’s always the way with decisions like that,” said John. “You can second guess yourself ‘til your head spins, but in the end there isn’t a right decision. You’ve gotta do the best you can and make it work.”

The young man nodded. 

Lara would go with Ferdan. Or maybe she would change her mind and go back to Gulderren. Either way, and no matter what the outcome, she and John wouldn’t meet again.

He thought about all the young men and women under his command back in Atlantis. Those who’d survived, those who hadn’t; not because of bad decisions they’d made, but because life, and death, was like that. At one time, he would have said any death was because of bad decisions he’d made, but he was older and wiser than that now; he’d done the best he could and no, it hadn’t always worked out too well, but he was just a man, after all.

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks,” said Ferdan and John thought for a second, he was going to add an honorific, or, worse, the crushing designation, ‘old timer’. Thankfully, he didn’t.

John rubbed his incipient beard. Maybe he should shave. Or get a boost from a friendly Wraith. No.

Lara’s quick, determined tread came from the kitchen. “There’s the last of the eggs,” she said, setting down a platter. “Some boiled choca, a few turgits and stove cakes from the last of the flour.” She sat down and began briskly sharing out the food between five, Beddows having appeared silently at the table.

“Nice,” said Rodney, tucking in. “These turgits are great. I wonder if we could get any on A-”

“So,” interrupted John. “I guess we’ll be moving on tomorrow too.”

There was silence, because although John had spoken over him, Rodney’s word had been clear for all to hear.

Lara put down her fork. Ferdan paused in his chewing. Beddows continued to eat, oblivious to the tension.

“Oh, um, what I meant was, er… Athos. I wonder if we could get any on -”

“You said Atlantis.” Lara’s eyes moved from Rodney to John. Her lips parted slightly as if she didn’t know what words to choose and her brows contracted. Surely she wasn’t now afraid of them?

John looked down at his plate, and at the food Lara had cooked. Rodney was right, the turgits, if they were the little fried potato-things, were good. And they were among friends who all knew each other’s dangerous secrets. “Yes, he did.”

“We’ve only heard rumours,” said Lara, slowly. “Not much news from outside gets to us here.”

“There’s really a city? Atlantis is real?” Ferdan looked even younger, his eyes shining.

“It’s real,” John confirmed.

“And you’re fighting the Wraith? Blowing up hives an’ all?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Lara’s mouth drooped.

Ferdan whooped and slapped the table. “You’ll beat ‘em! You’ll whup their asses good!”

“To be fair, there’s been a certain amount of ass-whupping on both sides,” said Rodney.

“It sounds like a dangerous life,” Lara said, sadly. “The Wraith always win, in the end.”

“We’ve held our own so far,” said John. She looked at him as if she could see all the dire situations he’d been in over the years, the suicidal missions, the last-ditch attempts.

“What really happened to land you here?”

“It was pretty much like we said,” John told her. “We were at a meeting with the Coalition of planets, someone kidnapped us, but the Wraith whose job it was to finish us dumped us here instead.”

“A Wraith sympathiser? I’ve never heard of that.”

“They do exist.”

“Yeah, you see, Ma. It ain’t so hopeless!” Ferdan looked admiringly from John to Rodney and back again.

“You need to get back to Atlantis.” Lara glanced at her empty plate and up at her son, who dutifully began to stack. “They won’t know what’s happened to you. They’ll think you’re dead.”

“More than likely,” said Rodney. “The whole alliance will be falling apart.”

“You’re pretty important, then?”

“Yes,” said Rodney. “Understatement.”

“All our personnel are important,” said John.

“Yes, yes, no one gets left behind and all that. But the kidnapping and presumed death of the Military Commander and Chief Science Officer of Atlantis are going to cause a bit more of a stir than if we were Airman Bloggs and Doctor Nobody, aren’t they?”

“Rodney.”

“It’s true!”

“Military Commander,” repeated Lara.

John shrugged.

“Your old injuries. They’re from missions.”

He shrugged again. Nothing had happened between him and Lara Kennet. There was no reason to think anything was slipping away.

She drew herself up and became businesslike. “So, what’s your plan for getting through the Gate?”

“Well, we haven’t really thought that far ahead yet,” said John.

“Hmm, no I can see you’ve had other concerns.” Lara smiled, stiffly. “Getting to Teksa’corani’s enough of a challenge. What do you think, Ferdy? Stage, train or grennet?”

“Ride up to Teller’s Gap and take the stage from there. Don’t take the train. There’s always more checks on the railroad and they’ll be heavier guarded now, I’m guessing.”

“Teller’s Gap? Where’s that?”

“It’s a ways north of here. Dry Creek’s nearer, but they’ll be on the lookout for strangers. We’ll be riding up to the head of the valley tomorrow. We’ll set you on the trail from there.” Lara pushed back her chair and stood. She held onto the chairback, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she looked up and said brightly, “So, it’ll be new directions for all of us, then.”

Her son reached out and she took his hand. “D’you wish you’d stayed at the diner, Ma?”

“No, son,” she said quietly, patting his hand. “No, I don’t. See, if I’d done that, I’d’a maybe never seen you again. And that’s more than I could bear. I just hope Herna can manage the place on her own. I don’t like that I just upped and left and she’ll be expecting me back.”

Ferdan slid the last empty plate to the bottom of the pile and put the knife and fork on top with the others. His mouth twisted, opened and shut again. Then he said, “I’ll wash, you dry.” And they went into the kitchen together.

“Sheppard -”

“Don’t.”

“But maybe -”

“No.” John stood up too fast but didn’t care about the pain in his strained, bruised muscles. He snatched his carefully mended jacket from the hook on the door, left the warm cabin and stood alone in the cold, grey morning. She would go her way, he would go his and they were two very different ways. There’d been nothing between them and there never would be. And just as well. She was right; his was a dangerous life and, even if someone’d have him, it wouldn’t be fair.

He wasn’t going to kid himself anymore about going back to Earth, either. If that’s what was demanded of him, he’d just say no and if he couldn’t have Atlantis he’d go off with Ronon and they’d keep on fighting and fighting until there were no more Wraith or no more them. Either of those outcomes would be fine by him right now.

Then John laughed at himself and his stupid, bad mood and his self-pity. He'd just carry on, doing the best he could in each moment he was lucky enough to have, considering the full tally of his near misses; that was what he always did and it would have to be enough.

His healing wound ached in the cold so he went back into the warm cabin and Rodney called him an idiot for having got cold in the first place, and life carried on.

oOo

Rodney felt his face turn fiery red. The first time might have been an accident, the second time an innocent reach for balance against the rolling motion of the stagecoach, but this - this was an act of deliberate intent. A hand rested on his thigh, hidden beneath the basket, which was so large it covered not just its owner’s knees, but one of Rodney’s as well, allowing the young woman to not only rest her hand on his leg, but actually squeeze it, without any of the other occupants of the stagecoach being aware; although his flaming cheeks and the occasional squeak might give them a clue, Rodney thought.

He’d tried staring blankly ahead, but that hadn’t put her off and the bushy-moustached man opposite, sitting next to his wife who held a young child on her lap, had given him a hard-eyed look of warning. He’d then tried looking past John out of the window, but after a while his neck had begun to stiffen up and he’d had to turn his head back toward the window on his right. The owner of the basket had taken this as encouragement to move her hand slightly higher and squeeze again. 

Not that, under certain circumstances, the attention wouldn’t have been acceptable; shiny chestnut curls bounced in the corner of his eye, and in the fleeting glance that Rodney had risked toward his admirer, he’d noted an attractively playful look in the green eyes and softly curving lips, veiled behind a thin veneer of innocence. But Rodney had Jennifer to think about and besides, just imagine if it’d been his wandering hands creeping over the unsuspecting thigh of a strange female.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50863151242/in/dateposted-public/)

Rodney was sure his rigidity was communicating itself to John, but they’d agreed to pretend to be strangers for a while, having made the shocking discovery of wanted posters for Butch McKay and Johnny Sundance outside the Agent’s office back in Teller’s Gap. How these badly-drawn pictures had been circulated was a mystery, although one with an obvious enough solution; after all, the only people familiar with those interesting aliases, apart from Lara and Ferdan’s men, were the members of Korda’s gang, or Korda himself.

He hoped Lara and Ferdan would be well away by now, following a meandering trail high into the mountains, to start a new life with their forged documentation in some distant town in the far west. And Beddows with them, dreaming of new and better ‘boom-blocks’.

John hadn’t spoken about Lara since they’d parted, their farewells awkward as their restive grennets shifted beneath them. Once or twice Rodney had almost-but-not-quite decided to say something and he still wasn’t sure whether he was being sensitive to John’s feelings or cowardly in not confronting the issue or just sensitive to the fact that John wouldn’t want to talk about his feelings anyway and, if he was honest, neither did Rodney. In the end, he’d just offered John one of the split and buttered biscuits he had wrapped in a cloth in his pocket, for emergencies. John had refused, but Rodney thought the gesture had been understood, in the usual way John seemed to understand what he meant without the use of words which would have been embarrassing and awkward for both of them.

The coach lurched on, its passengers similarly lurching from side to side in a nauseating manner.

“Do I know you?” The man opposite John had been giving him narrow-eyed looks over the top of his newspaper for the past half hour.

“I don’t reckon so,” replied John.

The man, plainly dressed except for a gaudy waistcoat which spoke of aspirations to high fashion, lowered his paper further. “I’m sure I’ve seen your face before. You bin in Dry Creek recently?”

“No,” said John.

“Down in Symona, maybe?”

“I ain’t never seen you before, Mister.”

Rodney would have liked to congratulate John on his imitation of the local drawl.

The suspicious man shook his head. “I’ve seen you. I just know it. It’ll come to me, I’m sure.”. He disappeared once more behind his paper.

Rodney hoped it wouldn’t, especially if there was the frame of a wanted poster round the remembered image. The hand on his thigh gave another squeeze. Rodney disguised the resulting squeak by clearing his throat.

There was a cry from above and the crack of a whip. The coach sped on, the scenery of sandy rocks and stunted trees streaking past the windows.

The suspicious man leant close to the window and craned his neck. “Some young varmint’s driving the coach,” he said. “It’ll be one of the young’uns straight out of the saloon.” He folded his newspaper, then rolled it up and stuffed it in an inside pocket.

“Bribed the driver, no doubt.” The man opposite to Rodney folded his arms grimly across his luxurious woollen coat. “I’ll be having some serious words with the driver at the next waystation.” He began to pontificate on the declining standards in the stagecoach service in general and the morals of the coach drivers in particular, but was interrupted by the little girl.

“How much longer, Auntie Bea?” She wriggled on the woman’s lap.

“It’s a while yet, dear.”

“I’m bored.” She kicked her legs.

“Keep still, dear.”

“Mister?” The young basket owner’s soft voice was accompanied by a gentle stroke of Rodney’s leg.

Rodney thought about refusing to acknowledge her. She wriggled her fingers further in between his thighs.

“But I’m _bored!_ ” 

The child was passed from her aunt to the man, presumably her uncle. She began kicking her feet, her small boots coming perilously close to Rodney’s legs.

“Mister?”

“Yes, what?”

A toe impacted with Rodney’s right kneecap. He glared murderously at the child, who stuck out her tongue.

The seductive voice murmured in his ear. “I’ve a jar of pickled morlas in my basket.”

“Really.”

“This is boring! Wanna get off!”

“Sit still, child.” A doting uncle he was not.

“My grandma pickled ‘em and gave ‘em to me to take to my Ma.”

“You’d better do that, then, hadn’t you?” Rodney replied lurching sideways into John. The coach was swaying dangerously and seemed to be picking up more and more speed.

“Off! Wanna get off!”

“Well, I was thinking maybe I could share ‘em. With you.”

“Oh.” Rodney wondered about the ethics of accepting pickled items from strange girls. He wondered if morlas might be citrus fruit. He considered that in order to access the contents of her basket, the young lady would surely have to remove her hand from his thigh; and other regions that it was becoming perilously close to. “Yes, please,” he said.

The hand withdrew. She uncovered the basket and flipped the wire fastener of her jar. The lid opened on a hinge. The contents were red like large cherries and smelt of almonds and fudge. The liquid sloshed over the lip of the jar as the stage jolted and lurched. Rodney’s mouth watered. “Um, I’m not sure if I like morlas,” he said. “It’s been a while since I had any.”

“Everybody likes morlas! Here.” She plucked one out of the jar, the red juice dripping from her fingers. She bit half of it and turned it toward him. “See, Grandma always takes the stones out, so they’re extra good.”

It certainly didn’t look like a citrus fruit. She pressed it to his lips like a cold, juicy kiss, which really did cross the boundary of acceptable stagecoach behaviour, but then her hand had already passed way over that boundary. Rodney opened his mouth and accepted the fruit. It was delicious.

“Pickled morlas! I want one!”

“Greyla, no!”

“But, I want one!”

“That’s alright, Ma’am, Sir.” She held the jar out. “The little girl’s welcome.”

Greyla jumped down from her uncle’s knee, landing hard on Rodney’s feet and clutching at the fringe of his coat. It was worth it, though, he thought as she forced a gap between him and the basket. At least with the little girl wedged against his thigh, she couldn’t kick his shins; and there was no space for wandering hands.

The wheels rumbled against the dirt road, the stage bounced and shook.

Suspicious man was studying John again. “I just know I seen you somewhere- “

There was a loud crack, the seat dropped out from beneath Rodney and the coach tipped sharply to one side. The little girl screamed, someone yelled. Rodney felt an arm link with his, preventing him from falling toward the window, which now showed a close-up view of blurred brown and yellow. There was another crack and the coach bounced so that Rodney flew up and hit something, maybe the ceiling, then it fell and his teeth clacked together painfully. There were more screams, squeals from the grennets, someone clung to Rodney’s leg, then there was a jarring, juddering scrape and splintering of wood as the coach ground to a halt.

Somebody sniffed. “I want my Momma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It couldn’t just have been a straightforward journey, could it? Stranded in the wilds, where will our heroes find shelter, and who are their new companions? Find out next Tuesday!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,  
> So, our daring duo are onto a new adventure, thrown together, quite literally, with a new set of characters. What secrets do they hide, and will they prove to be friends or enemies?

“Rodney, climb up me!” John tried to get purchase on the floor with his feet, but the coach was tipped up so far it was like trying to walk up a cliff face.

“What?”

“Climb up me! Quick, I can’t hold on much longer.” All of John’s weight - and Rodney’s too - was on his left arm, which he’d stuck out of the window, his armpit hooked over the frame, his hand reaching down the side.

Rodney’s lower hand swung round to grip John’s coat. Below them, the far window was dark, pressed tight against the ground where it sloped up at the side of the road. The other passengers were a tangled mess of bodies and limbs and fearful or angry protests.

“I can’t reach…” Rodney strained, his arm stretching out for the window frame.

John curled his feet up beneath him and pushed down on the seat. He drew his right shoulder round and up toward the window, pulling Rodney up as far as he could. “Hurry!” he gasped, his muscles straining, the half-healed graze on his shoulder aching.

“Got it!” The weight disappeared as Rodney pulled himself up. John reached out for Rodney’s feet and gave him a boost as he disappeared through the window, then swung his right arm round and pulled himself through.

There were two young men on the ground, one unconscious, one sitting, holding his head. John couldn’t see the driver, but the grennets were in trouble. The leaders were standing still, their sides heaving, but one of the wheelers was kicking and plunging in panic and the other was trailing an obviously broken leg and tangled in the twisted traces.

“Help the passengers.” John leapt down from the coach, the cold wind whipping his hair. He still couldn’t see the driver. “A knife! D’you have a knife?” The young man looked up at him, dazed. “I need a knife,” he repeated. The unfocussed eyes blinked in some semblance of understanding and a pocket knife was produced.

John unfolded it. The blade looked sharp. The panicking grennet had stopped plunging, but was vibrating with fear, its eyes rolling and wild. John circled round the front of the leaders and approached the animal slowly, talking soothingly to it. It stamped, flicked its large ears and blew out a throaty, warning growl.

“Easy, there Jar Jar.” The animal didn’t have quite the projecting eyes of the Star Wars character, but its flopping ears, flaring nostrils and broad mouth brought the friendly alien to mind; except this guy wasn’t so friendly at the moment. It gave another rumble erupting into a squeal and tossed its head. “Come on now, I’m not gonna hurt you.” John held out his hand. “Easy, now." His soothing tone seemed to be getting through. The animal trembled and twitched, but stood as he cut the harness and led it off to one side and immediately put its head down to graze on some tough stalks of grass.

John returned to the other stricken animal, which stood dejectedly, its ears drooping, its eye glassy with shock. He carefully cut the traces and drew the leather straps out from between the grennet's legs.

"You'll have to shoot that beast." It was the little girl's uncle, with his thumbs tucked in his belt, his chin raised as if he were about to address his collected admirers. Behind him, his niece watched her aunt being hauled gracelessly form the coach window. The girl's face and dress were red and for a moment John thought she must be seriously injured, until he recalled the jar of pickled fruit.

John spoke gently to the injured grennet and ran his hand down its dragging leg. The animal flinched and trembled, but didn’t move.

“Just shoot it,” repeated the uncle. “Or take your knife to its throat. Either will do. The name’s Penfell, by the way. Councillor Erran Penfell.”

“Neil Armstrong,” replied John. “You’re upsetting your niece.”

The girl’s head had whipped round at her uncle’s cruel words and her eyes had grown big and round. The man jerked irritably and flicked his finger at this wife, who was brushing down her dress and tutting over the splashes of red juice.

“Tirla, see to the girl,” he said, abruptly.

Her aunt shepherded her neice away to the far side of the coach.

There was a flurry of vehement curses as the final occupant jumped down from the upturned vehicle; words John didn’t recognise and some that seemed to be universal spewed forth from the young lady’s mouth as she regarded the ruin of her pale blue dress, her chestnut curls hanging in disarray as she bent over to study the full extent of the carnage.

Councillor Penfell looked down his nose at her. “Disgraceful language for a young lady!” 

“That ain’t no lady, she’s a whore from Madam Frey’s back in Teller’s Gap!” The young man who had been unconscious, was sitting up and smirking at the scene, despite the blood running down the side of his face.

“You call me whatever the hell you like, Garak Thorn, I’d’a driven that coach better’n you!”

“It were Tom’s fault, Morla! He bet me I wouldn’t!”

John turned his attention back to the injured animal. There was a movement at his side and the strong scent of sweet almonds.

“Poor thing. D’you want me to hold her? While you, you know?” Morla, who seemed to be named after the fruit with which she was liberally splattered, ran a gentle hand down the animal’s neck.

John would have known what to do for a horse, but wasn’t sure if these animals were the same. “There’s nothing we could do?”

Morla shook her head. “My Granpappy was a grennet doctor. He always said, if the bones ain’t crooked you’re in with a chance.”

They both looked at the distorted leg.

“Are you going to shoot it?” Rodney looked at him over the grennet’s back.

John nodded and took out his pistol. Morla held the reins and spoke softly to the animal, her voice continuing even as she jumped at the pistol shot and knelt down in the dirt as the grennet fell. She placed a hand on its cheek and stroked it, though the eye was lifeless.

“Well, it’s to be hoped that the damage to the carriage and the loss of an animal will teach the stagecoach line a lesson,” blustered Councillor Penfell. “I’ll be writing an extremely strongly-worded letter! Allowing members of the public to drive, indeed!” He strutted away.

“What an ass,” commented Morla.

oOo

Rodney was more than content to follow orders as John took charge. A disparate group of civilians, including at least one extremely awkward customer, stranded in the middle of nowhere, wasn’t his idea of a fun team-building activity. John, however, managed them with the long experience of command, and even succeeded in calming the group when the driver, found lying in the ditch at the side of the road, proved to be dead.

Morla and the two young men, Garak and Tom, who knew the route of the stage well, said that there was a waystation a mile or so further down the road. John saw to it that the three remaining grennets were loaded with baggage as well as the body of the driver, and boosted little Greyla up into the saddle in front of Garak, who seemed to be concussed.

There was a short power-struggle between John and Councillor Penfell, the latter insisting that Garak, as the author of the whole disaster, should be left behind while he rode the third grennet. John’s face set into cold contempt and he squared up to the self-important man. “That’s not happening,” he said and continued to look the Councillor directly in the eye with all the authority of the Military Commander of Atlantis. The Councillor backed off, muttering under his breath.

They set off down the dirt track. It began to rain. The assaulter of innocent scientists seemed to have lost interest in Rodney. He had caught her watching him with bitten lip and frowning brows, and when John had asked her to guide the lead grennet she had seemed glad to have something to do, confidently taking its reins and clicking her tongue to get it to move. Rodney watched Suspicious Man, who had been lurking discreetly, saying very little. He continued to shoot John glances, but his eyes seemed no longer puzzled and were narrowed with wariness.

Rodney fell back between the plodding group and walked alongside John, who was at the back, encouraging stragglers.

“That man. He’s remembered. He must have seen the wanted posters.”

John shook his head, his mouth grim. “No. it’s not that.”

“Where, then?”

“On the train.”

“What?” Rodney glanced up at the scattered passengers. He lowered his voice still further. “That’ll be the train that we _robbed?_ He saw you? How?”

“He was at the back of the carriage when I jumped from the bank car.”

“Oh, that’s just great.”

“He hasn’t said anything yet.”

“No, I expect he’ll wait til we get to the next town and then collect the reward money.”

“Maybe he won’t.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“There’s plenty of people who have something to hide. He might not want to draw the Agents’ attention to himself.”

“Huh. Well, you can hope.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll have to split from the group.”

Rodney looked out across the rain-soaked valley and down at the muddy track. “Yes, let’s head off into the wilderness in the pouring, freezing rain.”

They walked on. The rain grew heavier until it formed deep puddles across the road, and the sky was thick with clouds. Water seeped into Rodney’s boots and ran off the brim of his hat.

A shout came from ahead, and Morla pointed off the track.

“Must be the waystation,” said John. He jogged down the road, and when Rodney ushered the last of the passengers into the wide entrance he was lifting Greyla down from her perch and giving the grennets into the care of an old man, who led them into a barn.

The waystation building was bigger than Rodney had expected; a two-storey house that looked like it had seen far better days. A few flecks of flaking paint clung to its clapboard walls, but there was more green algae than paint and Rodney didn’t trust the wooden planks of the verandah. He crossed it, gingerly, and went in. 

There was a large room, with stairs going up to the left and a counter straight ahead with shelves behind. To the right was a long table and beyond that a fire, flanked by a couple of uncomfortable-looking wooden settles. The fire was low, but a kettle hung suspended above it. Rodney thought about coffee. He’d no doubt have to make do with latcha, but that at least would be warm.

Greyla and her aunt sat down on one of the settles and Tom helped the unsteady Garak to the other.

“Where’s the staff?” Penfell banged on the counter as if expecting liveried servants to appear.

Suspicious Man hovered between the two settles, his back to the fire. “Do you know that man?” he said to Rodney. “I saw you talking to him.”

“What? Who?” Best to pretend ignorance.

“Armstrong, or whatever his name is. You seemed to be pretty friendly with him.”

“Oh, well, that happens when you’ve been thrown together by fate, quite literally. I’m sure we’ll all be the best of friends soon. My name’s Aldrin,” said Rodney. “Buzz Aldrin.”

“Buzz?” Greyla laughed.

“You may mock, but I’ll have you know it’s a name of high renown, where I come from.”

“And where might that be?” asked Suspicious Man.

“Oh, a long way from here. You wouldn’t know it. You haven’t told us your name.”

“Coresen. Liffa Coresen. I’m in sales. I travel a lot.”

The door opened and the old man entered, followed by John and Morla.

Penfell immediately rounded on the old man. “You, there! I need replacement transport immediately. And my baggage and a room where I can change my clothing and hot food and drink.”

“Ain’t no other transport here and I’ll need some help with the baggage. As for food and drink… Help yourself to latcha.” He nodded at the fire. “And I guess I could cook you up some grits.”

“Are there no other staff?” demanded Penfell.

“No, sir, just old Red, no one else, no indeedy.”

“That’s a no, then,” muttered Rodney, wondering if the man’s few wisps of white hair had once been red.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50876864443/in/dateposted-public/)

“What do you mean, no other transport? How am I supposed to continue my journey?”

“There’s other folks here too, you know,” remarked Tom.

“You can keep quiet, young man! You two have caused enough trouble for one day! Now, how are you going to arrange transport?”

Red had bent behind the counter. He straightened up, and began setting a motley collection of chipped mugs on a tray. “Well…” He began, taking his time to reply, “I reckon we’ll have to get another coach sent up from Tychor.”

“Right. How will you arrange that? How will they know what’s happened?”

Red chuckled as he carried the tray across to the table and set it down. “They won’t know unless we tell ‘em, will they? They’ll maybe wonder where the stage is, but it’ll be a while before they send out a search.” He tottered to the hearth and lifted the kettle with a cloth round the handle.

“This is intolerable! I have important business to conduct. I can’t be wasting my time here!”

“Mebbe you’ll be the one to ride down to the office in Tychor, then.” The Councillor backed off as Red poured dark, golden-orange latcha into the mugs. “Tea’s up.”

Rodney took a mug and sipped the strong brew, and Morla passed mugs to Greyla and her aunt. The crisis seemed to have dampened the young lady’s ardour, which was entirely wasted on him anyway, because he was going to marry Jennifer. Probably.

“Hey, Garak.” The young man prodded his companion. “Garak, wake up!”

Garak’s face was bone white and his head lolled slackly against his friend’s shoulder.

“The young fool’s passed out again,” remarked Penfell.

“He’s not a fool, he's my brother! Help him, someone!”

“Best carry him upstairs,” said Red. “Plenty of room up there. Used to be a hotel.”

“Here, I’ll help you.” John bent down and picked up the unconscious man’s legs and helped his brother carry him up the stairs.

“He’ll probably die. And no more than he deserves,” said Penfell.

Morla glared at him. “ _I’m_ going to go and see what I can do to help!”

oOo 

It wasn’t just a simple concussion, John thought. He’d checked Garak’s eyes and his pupils were uneven, indicating a possible brain injury. He needed proper medical help, and although this world seemed largely the equivalent of nineteenth century Earth in terms of technology, it was possible that a doctor would be able to do something. He left Tom and Morla and jogged down the stairs.

The old man was pouring more latcha and meandering around the subject of providing food. “Could be there’s enough grits. Or might be a coupla turgits to be had. Don’t usually have folks here long enough to eat." 

“I’m going to ride to Tychor for a doctor,” said John. “How far is it?” 

“It’s a good way. A good, long way.” The old man peered out through the grimy window. “Getting dark out there now and still raining.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Rodney. 

“It’s an excellent idea,” the Councillor said. “You should go now and then the coach will pick us up first thing in the morning.” 

“I’ll call in at the stage office,” said John. “But the main thing is to get some medical help up here.” He looked at Rodney. It felt wrong to split up, but someone had to do it, and a hard ride through the rain might even be preferable to being around Penfell. It would also keep him out of the other guy’s way; Coresen, or whatever his name was. Rodney gave a discreet nod of acknowledgement and John headed out the door, followed by Red. 

“You just head straight down, straight down the road and it’ll take you all the way there, ain’t no turnings to speak of, just straight on down.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” John led out the freshest of the grennets and Red helped him saddle up. 

“You go careful now, young ‘un,” said Red. 

John kicked his mount into action and they set off into the gloom. 

The rain pelted in John’s face and he pulled the brim of his hat down hard. The sky was iron-grey and the dirt surface of the track was cut by streams of water draining from the slope above and running across to the steep drop on John’s right. The grennet splashed its way steadily through, stumbling occasionally where the softened ground collapsed beneath its hooves. It grew colder and the rain turned to sleet; the wind blew in under John’s hat, so that his face stung until his cheeks began to go numb with cold. 

The wanted posters at Teller’s Gap, the suspicious glances of the Coresen guy, and the crash and its aftermath had kept John’s thoughts safely distracted. Now, as the rain drummed on his hat and the grennet snorted and blew rhythmically, his mind wandered back toward Ferdan’s little cabin in its hidden valley, and he relived the few precious moments that would stay forever in his memory, a poignant counterpoint to the darkness which lingered there also. 

_Rodney was asleep in front of the fire, his mouth hanging open, and normally John would have taken the opportunity to rub his finger amongst the spilt ashes on the hearth and ever-so-carefully embellish Rodney’s upper lip with a moustache. But he hadn’t the heart. He sat, listening to the chink of cutlery against tin plates that drifted from the kitchen and the subtle splash of soapy water. And he knew very well that he should ignore it and go and check their kit, or go outside and breathe the fresh mountain air._

_He went into the kitchen. Lara turned around and wiped her damp hands on her apron, then tucked the stray strands of hair behind her ears, and all the while her eyes didn’t leave his face. He thought he hadn’t moved, but perhaps his arms had twitched, because suddenly, with a tiny breath of a sob, she took the few quick strides that were necessary to bring their bodies together, and her arms were around him and his around her._

_And Lara held him not with hungry avarice, as if he were a trophy to be won, but with a kind of firm gentleness, one hand at the small of his back, the other pressing between his shoulder blades. She was nearly as tall as him and her breasts yielded warmly to his chest and her head rested on his shoulder. Her hair was soft on his cheek and he wanted her, not just for now, not just in a brief flurry of passion, blooming and then spent, but for always._

_She released him and pulled back. Her eyes were troubled, her lips slightly parted. Had he got it wrong? Having found out about his dangerous life, did she feel protective toward him, as a sister or a mother? John’s eyes fell from hers and slid to one side; he wanted to chew his lip but didn’t._

_There was a soft touch on his cheek. He looked up and her hand was poised, irresolute. Then she touched him again, one cool hand on his face, drawing him to her, the other sliding up his chest, catching on the buttons of his shirt. Their lips met. John buried his fingers in Lara’s hair and lost himself in her._

The grennet stumbled again, splashing in a deep pothole. He kicked it forward, with a curse aimed not at his unfortunate mount, but at himself and his stupid, pointless thoughts. He gripped the reins firmly and spoke reassuringly to the animal. “Steady, there.” 

Lightning flashed and then a moment later there was a shattering crash and the grennet took off down the track

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50877526261/in/dateposted-public/)

John crouched low in the saddle and let the animal run for a bit, its long tangled mane streaming in his face, its hooves thundering and splashing beneath him. Slowly, he brought it back under control and to a halt. He ran his hand down the side of its neck and talked to it for a minute, his legs moving in and out with the creature’s laboured breaths.

“Come on, now, there’s nothing to be scared of.” Looking round at the darkening sky and the furious deluge of sleet, John wasn’t so sure that that was true. He’d only come a mile or so and the conditions had worsened considerably. But Garak needed a doctor. “Off we go, then.” He clicked his tongue and urged the grennet on. 

The sleet pounded relentlessly, the grennet put its head down and plodded on, and John pulled the brim of his hat down yet further and hunched his shoulders, glancing up now and again and squinting through the slashing deluge. His clothes were soaked through and he was growing colder by the minute. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any heavier the sleet seemed to double in strength until the splash of the grennet’s hooves and the grunting puffs of its breaths were obliterated by roaring white noise. Then the roaring increased still further and through the saddle and the reins John felt a shuddering tremble that had nothing to do with the grennet’s fear. The ground, which the leaping rain had made into a seething lake, began to move of its own accord so that the whole road seemed to slip suddenly sideways and the slope above shivered and collapsed into an engulfing slew of mud and rock. 

The grennet panicked and ran further into the torrent. John pulled it round and urged it back up the hill, but lightning flashed again and the terrified animal reared and twisted, backing toward the edge of the road in its fear. As John fought for control the grennet backed further so that its hooves skidded at the very edge of the drop. It struggled and fought for purchase on the slick, moving river of mud, then the edge of the road collapsed beneath it and John was jolted out of the deep hollow of the saddle and he slid backward on the slick leather. He let the reins slip through his fingers to give the grennet a chance to get its head down and fight its way upright, but with each kick and thrust he slid further and further down, so that he clung to the edge of the saddle by his fingertips. Then the grennet gained its footing and with a heave of its powerful muscles pulled itself up, but loosened the last shreds of John’s grip. The slick brown fur disappeared from beneath him and John 

oOo 

Rodney gathered up his damp clothes and his boots, which were soaked through and dripping a trail of water across his room. Red had shown the passengers guest rooms on the upper floor, where they could change their clothes, but Rodney decided he wouldn't be doing anything else in his room; sleeping for example. The fireplace was empty and cold and though a fire had been kindled in Garak’s room, there wasn’t enough fuel to heat any of the other guest rooms. And although there was a bed, its mattress was bare and it looked and sounded to Rodney as though it were inhabited by a significant number of small, squeaking creatures, probably with sharp teeth and a propensity to bite intruders.

He stepped out onto the landing. Morla was there, her arms similarly burdened with wet clothes, her boots in her hand, her feet softly padded with several extra pairs of socks. She had on a cherry red dress that looked far too good for its surroundings. 

She smiled as she saw Rodney, but she bit her lip and stepped toward him uncertainly. 

“I owe you an apology, Mr Aldrin.” 

“Call me Buzz. Why?” 

“Well, back there on the coach… You see, in my line of work, it taking place mainly by candlelight or no light at all, and there not being much in the way of conversation from most grennet farmers…” She trailed away. “The fact of the matter is, I thought you were one of my clients.” 

“Oh.” 

“So, you see that’s why I kinda warmed my hand up where maybe it wasn’t wanted.” 

“Oh. Oh, well. That’s, er, yes I see. I think.” A drop of water fell from Rodney’s boots onto the floor. “Do I really look like I farm great smelly animals for a living, though?” 

She cast an assessing eye over his clothes and face and shrugged. “There’s all types of farmers. Ain’t a whole helluva lot of choice of employment round here. But I’m right sorry I was mistook, Mister. I mean Buzz.” 

“Hmm. Well, apology accepted, then, I suppose. Shall we....?” He gestured with his bundle toward the stairs. 

Morla went down before him and they put their boots by the fire and hung their clothes where they could find space. 

“I don’t think they’ll dry any time soon,” said Morla. “I hope Mr Armstrong’s alright out there.” 

The rain battered against the windows and lightning flashed. 

“Yes, so do I."

oOo 

A slurry of liquid mud ran in John’s face, over and under his body, threatening to wash him away down the steep side of the valley. He coughed and choked and his legs cycled uselessly against the collapsing earth beneath him. His fingers, curled round a jutting piece of rock, were so cold he could barely feel the rough surface that he clung to. The cold had penetrated his clothes and his skin and he could feel it bone-deep inside and worming its way into his mind so that he almost gave in and let himself fall; he could let go, and rest and not worry or fight any more.

But he didn’t let go. He fought and kicked against the lure of peace and ending, just as his body fought and kicked at the slick, treacherous hillside. One foot found some purchase and he thrust himself upward, letting go of the rock with one hand and reaching up as high as he could, digging his fingers into the softness, clutching at the firm rock beneath. He gripped and pulled and found another foothold and another handhold and, slowly, his body aching with exhaustion, he hauled himself up the side of the hill and, at last, scrambled over the brink of the washed-away track and onto safe ground. He forced himself to crawl further, then further away from the edge which felt blessedly solid beneath him, but could easily disappear with another trembling and tumbling of the waterlogged ground. 

John lay, shattered with fear and relief and cold and exhaustion, the ground firm against his chest, his fingers weakly twitching and grasping so that liquid mud oozed between them. His eyes closed and he would have slept, but a gigantic clap of thunder roused his dulled senses and he forced his hands beneath him and pushed himself back onto his knees. 

The lightning flashed again and he used the brief flickering silver-white to orient himself. The road above him was half eaten away by the deluge, but below it had disappeared entirely beneath the slip of the hillside. He climbed, trembling, to his feet, staggered and nearly fell, but braced his legs, breathed in and out deliberately, focussing on his task, and then, one step at a time, began to make his stumbling way back up the road to the waystation.

oOo 

All of the reluctant guests gathered in the main room and Red served up a dubious dinner of sloppy grits and half-raw, half-burnt turgits. Rodney ate it, despite his distaste, and finished off the leftovers of those who were too fastidious for their own good, which did not include Morla, who guarded her own portion jealously and put up a respectable fight over some abandoned turgits that Rodney had had his eye on. Hostilities ending with a fair division, she then went up to check on Garak, and Tom struck up a card game with Liffa Coresen. Rodney decided not to get involved, his last card game having ended disastrously. At one point he thought this game was destined for a similar outcome, money having been laid out and Tom coming out the loser again and again.

“It seems like the luck’s with me, tonight,” said Coresen, scooping yet another haul of coins toward himself. 

“You can call it luck if you want.” Tom’s lower lip stuck out and he glared at Coresen through his tangled blonde hair. 

Coresen became instantly still. Rodney was reminded of a cobra, readying itself to strike. “And what would you call it, Mr Thorn?” 

Red turned round from building up the fire. “Come on now, boys, no need for argumentin’” 

“Play with _me_ now!” Greyla tugged on Tom’s sleeve, dispelling the suddenly dangerous mood. 

Tom’s gaze stayed locked with Coresen’s for another second, then he huffed with contempt and turned away, smiling at the little girl. “You come up here and I’ll show you how to play ten-card slap.” He picked her up and sat her on his lap where they began to play a noisy game that involved slamming a hand down on the cards and yelling a lot. 

Coresen retreated sneeringly up the stairs. 

Rodney wandered to the window but couldn’t see anything other than the reflection of the fire and the lantern that stood on the table. The window-frame shook with the force of the wind and gusts of sleet battered the glass. It was a bad night to be out. A bad night and a bad road and he shouldn’t have let John go. _As if I could have stopped him,_ thought Rodney. 

The Penfells were sitting on the settles in front of the fire, the Councillor pompously expounding on the many and varied failings of modern society and his wife, occupied with a tiny, precise piece of needlework, nodding equally precisely in agreement with his words. Rodney wondered whether she’d eventually snap and stab him with her needle. It probably wouldn’t pierce his skin.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50876864388/in/dateposted-public/)

“The scaffold’s the place for them!” said Penfell with satisfaction, condemning a good proportion of the populace of the planet.

Rodney decided that Morla and Tom, and probably even the unconscious Garak, might occupy his restless mind with less irritation than the bigotted councillor. He turned away from the rain-pelted window and went up the stairs. At the top, he could hear voices from beyond the turn in the corridor where Garak’s room was; a low murmur, followed by a clipped response. Then there were swift footsteps and Morla, her face burning as red as her dress, burst around the corner. She was tugging her low neckline straight with one hand, smoothing the front of her skirt with the other and her mouth was fully occupied with a litany of curses. 

“Are you alright? What happened?” 

“I’m fine,” she said, shortly. “I can take care of myself.” Her skirt whipped past him, but at the top of the stairs she paused, her hand on the handrail. “I’m sorry. It’s just… People think because of what I do, they can treat me how they like, touch me how they like.” 

“Coresen?” 

“Yes, the bastard.” 

“Do you want me to…?” Rodney waved a hand, not really sure what he was offering. 

“What? Defend my honour?” She smiled, wearily. “That’s kinda sweet of you, but no thanks.” 

“Well, at the very least I could put itching powder in his clothes and tie his bootlaces together.” 

She laughed. “Maybe you could.”

oOo 

John had done this kind of thing before and knew how to handle it; an impossible goal, when you were beaten in body and barely functional in mind. First one foot, then the other; it was as simple as that. You didn’t focus on your end goal, because that would be too much; you just centred your willpower right down and took one single step. And then you took another. And you didn’t think about all those other steps you’d have to take.

Lara’s face appeared before him, her lips tight with worry. 

One heavy, dragging foot moved forward. 

The sleet had turned back to rain. 

_It’s always like this, Lara,_ he thought. _Always one more desperate step, one more mission. It’s who I am._

Another foot forward. 

The rain had washed the mud out of his eyes. Or had a soft hand wiped it away? 

Lara’s face was there again, and she was shaking her head and smiling. _It’s not who you are. You’re John Sheppard. And that’s enough._

Another step. 

His chest and face hit something wet and bristly. It moved and grunted. 

“Hey, you,” said John, his voice slurring. “Thought you’d 'a' gone home.” 

He felt around the rough, wet hair and moved toward the animal’s head. It’s neck was stretched down but it jerked when his fingers encountered the straggly mane and gave a frustrated, squealing cry. John couldn’t find the reins so he felt his way down the animal's neck, found the smooth straps that made up the bridle and then followed them down past the grennet’s mouth to a tangle of leather and a hoof. The animal was effectively hobbled. 

John thought about crouching down to release the grennet’s leg, but realised he’d already fallen to his knees. He found the hoof, caught up close under the bridle and slowly unwound the tangled reins. When it was free the grennet threw up its head and for a moment John thought it was going to run. But the large, warm presence stayed and John took two fistfuls of its mane and pulled himself up. The animal’s back was a long way above him. A ride would’ve been nice, but instead, John retained his grip on the mane and leant against the warm solidity as the grennet began to plod its way up the track. 

He disappeared into a dark dream for a while where he looked for Lara but couldn’t find her, and he nearly fell when they turned into the waystation entrance. Lights glowed out from the windows and only then did John acknowledge how desperately he wanted to be in there, away from the cold and the continuous pelting rain, inside in the warmth and the light. The grennet quickened its pace and made straight for the barn, grumbling a greeting to its companions and John allowed himself to be pulled along and into the safe, familiar, straw-and-animals smell. 

They went into an open stall and the grennet began pulling at its net of hay as if nothing had happened. John fumbled with numb hands at the buckles of the harness, but realised it was hopeless; someone else would have to do it He wanted to fall into the straw that rustled beneath his waterlogged boots but, with a tired murmur to the animals, John turned his back on them, plodded out into the pouring rain once more, splashed across the muddy ground and then heaved himself up onto the verandah.

oOo 

Rodney had decided he would go to bed. Mrs Penfell had taken Greyla up a while ago, Morla and Tom had retreated once more to Garak’s room and Liffa Coresen hadn’t come down the stairs since his encounter with Morla. So Rodney was left confronting the pontificating Councillor. The man would benefit from a close encounter with a Wraith stunner, Rodney thought. His was stowed in a canvas bag in his room and it was lucky for Penfell that Rodney was enjoying the warmth of the fire too much to retrieve it and put it to good use.

“Of course, as a Councillor, I have a huge amount of responsibility,” said Penfell. “What line of work are you in, Mr Aldrin?” 

Rodney was saved from having to answer by a thump at the door. It didn’t open straight away, but the handle began to turn and then suddenly the door blew back against the wall with a crash, and a figure collapsed forward into the room, accompanied by the rushing gale and a spattering swathe of rain. 

“J- !” Rodney stopped himself just in time. For a moment he couldn’t remember John’s alias and rushed forward to kneel at his friend’s side. The rain pelted in through the open door. Rodney rose, slammed it shut and sank down again. 

John had fallen on his front, his head turned to one side and Rodney could see that his skin was chalk white and his lips blue. Water was pouring off his clothes and his hair was plastered to his skin, but he was motionless, not even shivering; was he breathing? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stranded at the remote waystation, a storm raging, John hypothermic - can things get any worse? Find out on Friday!
> 
> Thank you very much for reading. Please let me know if you like my story! I love to hear from readers!  
> Salchat


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has made a dramatic entrance, falling in through the door of the waystation. But there have been dark deeds committed in his absence, which are about to be revealed!

“Help me!”

Councillor Penfell didn’t move.

“Help me, damn you, he’s freezing cold!”

Penfell came forward and he and Rodney put a shoulder under each of John’s arms and dragged him close to the fire. Rodney started to pull John’s jacket off, but Penfell just stared, his fingers playing over the chain of his watch.

“Why don’t you help, you useless great lump? Or get someone who can!”

“What’s happening? Oh!” Rodney, struggling with John’s clothes, heard a patter of feet on the stairs and then Morla was beside him, and it crossed Rodney’s mind, as she ordered and summoned and quickly conjured towels and blankets and hot latcha, that she would make an excellent Marine sergeant, or a quartermaster, or a nurse. Red emerged from the kitchen and helped.

“I told him to go careful!”

“I’m sure he did,” snapped Rodney.

John began to shiver, which Rodney knew was a good sign, but it didn't make it any easier to rub the life back into his friend’s frozen limbs or dress him in the odd assortment of clothes that had been gathered. 

His eyes opened and, through chattering teeth, he said, “Road’s out. Landslide.”

“Yes, I’m not surprised with all this rain,” said Rodney. He pulled an old woollen sweater over John’s head, gathered up a sleeve and drew John’s shaking arm through.

“What?” Penfell barked. “The road’s out? Is that what you said?”

“Yeah. Grennet spooked. Fell down the hill.” John’s eyes slid shut.

“No, don’t go to sleep yet.” Rodney pulled his other arm through the warm knitted sleeve and pulled the sweater down to his waist. “Hey, wake up.” He patted the side of John’s face and the black lashes flickered over bleary eyes. “Here, drink some of this.” Rodney put the mug of sweetened latcha to John’s lips and tipped it up. John drank, but then raised a shaking hand to push the mug away.

“Couldn’t get the harness off,” he said.

“Don't you worry," said Red. "I’ll see to that.”

His friend seemed to be reviving, some colour returning to his cheeks and his shivering abating. He probably just needed a good night’s sleep in a warm bed, if there was such a thing in this place. There was an old chaise longue beneath the window, the springs sticking out of the upholstery at one end; it would do.

“Help me drag this over.”

Morla and Rodney pulled the chaise near to the fire, pushing one of the settles back out of the way. They supported John onto it, where he lay down and fell into a heavy sleep.

“He’ll be alright,” said Morla.

“I hope so.” John’s face still looked pale, but his hair was drying into springy disarray and that made him look more like his usual self rather than the half-drowned, frozen figure who had fallen through the door.

Morla moved her head closer to Rodney’s, and lowered her voice. “Are you sure you don't know him?”

“No, of course not. Why?”

She shrugged. “You just seem more concerned than you would with a stranger is all. So, I thought… Never mind. Come and play cards with me," said Morla. "We’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Don’t you want to go to bed? It’s late.”

She shook her head. “It’s freezing up there. I’ll bed down here in front of the fire, or maybe in Garak’s room.”

It was only then that Rodney remembered why John had ridden out in the first place. “How is he?”

“He’s been kind of awake a couple of times. We’ll have to wait and see.” She began to deal the cards.

oOo

He’d stopped. He’d stopped, and stopping meant dying out here in the cold and the rain and he’d never find Lara or get home if he couldn’t keep moving. One foot and then the other; why had he stopped? How could he have given up? John gathered his will and forced his eyes open. There was a yellow glow before him. He blinked and blinked again, clearing the shadows from his eyes, bringing the scene into focus; he’d made it, he remembered. He’d made it back and he was dry and warm and there was Rodney playing cards with a pretty girl with chestnut hair; Jennifer. No, Morla, and Jennifer would be pissed if she could see Rodney smiling and slapping his hand down on his opponent’s to try to win the pile of cards.

He was safe and he could go back to sleep, but though his body seemed to have no desire to move and his muscles felt leaden and drained, for the moment John’s mind was active and his eyes travelled round the room, settling on each of the guests in turn. 

Penfell was lounging by the fire, reading a newspaper and commenting sporadically on the articles. His wife bent over the table, close to the lantern, sorting through something spread on the surface; coloured threads, John thought, as she held one closer to the light. The little girl wasn’t there. She must be in bed. There was no sign of Red either. Or Tom. No, here was Tom, coming down the stairs. John remembered Garak and felt a twist of guilt that he hadn’t completed his task; there’d be no doctor for the young man now.

“How is he?” Morla looked up from the card game.

“He was awake, but he thought I was our Mom.” Tom sat down on the other settle, smiled at John and then stretched out his long legs, his feet crossed over at the ankle.

“’m sorry,” John mumbled.

Tom waved the apology away. “You did your best. And he’s not looking as bad now.”

Penfell huffed impatiently, and snapped and twitched the newspaper into a neat rectangle. He pressed his lips together as if he would have liked to repeat his earlier condemnation, but instead turned his derision on the newspaper. “Parochial rag,” he spat, flinging it onto the hearth. “Only fit for kindling.” He stood up, pulled out his watch on its chain and studied it carefully. “It’s time everybody went to bed, he announced. “And in the morning, somebody will ride back to Teller’s Gap and return with a suitable conveyance. You Mr Aldrin, or you Thorn. One of you should go.”

Rodney put down his cards. “I don’t see why it should be one of us. You’re the one with the so-called important business. You can go.”

Penfell seemed to swell, like an angry balloon. “How dare you address me with such incivility!”

oOo

“Oh, give it a rest, you old windbag.” These, or other words to the same effect, had been at the tip of Rodney’s tongue, but Morla beat him to it. Councillor Penfell spluttered, his face working as if it couldn’t find an expression to match his outrage. Mrs Penfell tutted loudly. “Hit me with another three,” Morla said calmly.

Rodney dealt her another three cards.

“Insolent harlot!” Penfell loomed over the table. “I insist that you remove yourself from my presence!”

“Less of the name-calling, Penfell,” said Rodney, bristling in Morla’s defence. “And if a person’s value was measured by their actions, instead of wealth and titles, this young lady would be worth ten of you!”

He turned back to Morla who gazed at him with frank admiration in her green eyes. Rodney drew himself up but felt his face go red; he’d been the object of remarkably few admiring female gazes during his life and he was never sure what to do with himself when they did occasionally come his way. Of course, now that he was the permanent recipient of Jennifer’s admiration, he should frown direfully in order to depress any incipient hopes, but somehow he couldn’t quite arrange his face accordingly.

Penfell’s face began to turn purple, but his wrath was cut off by Red, who burst in through the kitchen door. He was breathing hard and wet through, with mud clinging to his boots. He pointed wildly behind him and coughed, tried to speak then coughed again. “There’s - There’s that -”

“What? Spit it out, man!” Penfell demanded.

“A - A body! That man Coresen. He’s dead!”

Mrs Penfell screeched and dropped her needlework. Morla let her cards fall and put one hand to her mouth. There was a shriek of tortured springs as John struggled upright, his eyes darting to his pistol, which hung in his belt, over the back of one of the settles.

“Dead? How? Where is he?” Rodney was on his feet, his hand patting at his thigh, checking that his sidearm was in place.

“Out there,” said Red. “I went to see to the grennets and take the harness off the one Mr Armstrong took an’ all, and there he was, dead.”

“Where? Where was he?”

“At the back of the barn, dead as could be, his weskit all cut and his blood all on the straw.”

“Killed with a knife?” Penfell’s eyes shifted round the room at the other guests in a way Rodney didn’t like at all. “Someone should go and see. Maybe he’s not dead at all.”

“He’s dead alright,” said Red. “Dead as dead.”

John pushed off the blankets and began to struggle to his feet. He was still very pale.

“Sit down… Neil.” Rodney frowned at him until John sank back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“No one should go on their own!” Mrs Penfell’s voice trembled with fear. “The killer might strike again.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “What is this, a Victorian melodrama? I’ll go and see.”

“No, wait.” Morla stopped him. “Wait, Mrs Penfell’s right. Everyone should sit down, we need to think about this.”

“I don’t see why -” began Penfell.

“Please, just… sit and listen to me,” Morla coaxed. Everybody subsided and looked at her. “If he’s really dead -”

“Dead as dead!” Red interrupted.

“If he’s really dead,” Morla continued, “then one of us is the murderer.”

Nobody could dispute this. The waystation was isolated and there had been no other travellers on the road and certainly none would venture out in such a storm. Except Sheppard, obviously. The guests shrank in their seats. Mrs Penfell held out her hand and her husband got up from the settle and sat down next to her; the first sign of affection Rodney had seen between them.

“So, what do we do?” Tom asked. “Who would kill Coresen? What for?”

“Did anyone know him?” asked Morla, looking round.

“He cheated that young ‘un,” said Red, pointing at Tom. “An’ you didn’t like it one bit, did you?”

“No! It weren’t me! I mean, yeah, he was a cheatin’... But, anyways, it weren’t me!”

“He said he knew Mr Armstrong!” Penfell pointed an accusing finger at John. “We all heard him! Didn’t we? He said he recognised Mr Armstrong and Mr Armstrong denied it, repeatedly!”

“That’s because I didn’t know him,” said John. 

Sidelong glances began to flick nervously in John’s direction. Rodney really didn’t like the way this was heading.

“I did hear him,” said Morla, doubtfully. “Coresen. He kept saying it, but then later he stopped.”

“Maybe because he’d remembered!” said Penfell. “Maybe he confronted Mr Armstrong with his knowledge of Mr Armstrong’s past and paid for it with his life!”

“Armstrong was a long time out,” Tom agreed.

“I fell down a cliff,” said John. “I had to walk back.”

“You came back with the grennet. How do we know you didn’t ride and just say all that about falling and walking and such?” argued Red.

“Because he was half-dead with cold!” said Rodney. “How could he have murdered anyone in that state? He couldn’t have held a knife to eat a steak, let alone kill a man!”

“Coulda been faking,” said Red.

“He wasn’t faking,” said Morla. “He was frozen to the bone. I could tell!”

“My knife!” said Tom. “I gave him my knife and he never gave it back!”

“This is ridiculous!” Rodney protested. “You all heard what I said and what Morla said! Mr Armstrong couldn’t have done it! And I bet all of us have some kind of knife and any one of us could have had an opportunity. Which of us hasn’t been alone at some point this evening?”

“That may be true, Mr Aldrin, but it’s clear that Mr Armstrong had both motive and opportunity!” Penfell turned an accusing glare on John.

Rodney couldn't let suspicion fall on his friend. But who could have done it? “Coresen assaulted Morla!”

“Buzz!”

“I’m sorry, but there it is,” said Rodney, ashamed of the hurt he was responsible for in Morla’s wide green eyes. “Neil’s not the only one with a motive. So does Tom and so do you.” 

Morla gave a gasp and turned away. There would be no more admiring glances sent his way now. And quite right too, said Jennifer’s voice.

“ _I_ ain’t got no reason for killin’” said Red.

“And my wife and I must surely be exempt from any accusations!” said Penfell.

“I don’t see why.” Tom stood up, his hands in his pockets, his chin jutting out. “Just ‘cause you’re with the little girl don’t mean you couldn’t kill a man, same as the rest of us.”

“How dare you!”

“Let’s just calm it down,” said John.

“Why should we listen to you?” asked Tom. “You killed him! Didn’t you?”

“Listen to _me_!” Rodney stood, his fists planted on the table, the lantern uplighting the angry faces surrounding him. “This is not helping!” Nobody spoke. “We’re not going to find out what happened by throwing around wild accusations. And, if you actually think about it like sensible, rational people instead of complete idiots, you’ll agree that we’re safe as long as we stay together in groups of at least three!”

Councillor Penfell’s moustache wobbled as he spluttered his indignation at being thus addressed.

Tom frowned. “How d’you figure that?”

“Because if there’re just two of you, then one of you could be the murderer and murder the other!”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“So,” continued Rodney, somewhat more calmly, “I suggest a group goes out to the barn to make sure that Coresen is, in fact, dead. Yes, I know,” he said, forestalling Red’s likely comment. “Dead as dead. We’re still going to make sure.”

“I’ll show you where he is,” said Red.

“And I’ll go,” said Rodney.

“I want to see,” said Tom.

“I suppose I ought to declare the man officially dead, in my role as Councillor,” said Penfell.

Mrs Penfell shrieked. “No! You’re not leaving me alone with that murderer!” She pointed at John.

“He’s not a murderer. And you wouldn’t be alone,” said Morla. “But I don’t see why you men take it upon yourselves. I should go and you should stay here with your wife, _Councillor_.”

“This is man’s work,” said Penfell, looking down his nose at her.

Morla stood up and smoothed down her dress, smiling dangerously. “Don’t kid yourself, mister. I’ve seen sights that’d make your toes curl.” She jerked her head at Rodney and Tom. “Come on, boys. Follow me.”

Coresen was dead. Definitely, unequivocally dead. The lantern, held up in Red’s trembling hand, made the shadows shiver and dance so that it appeared for a moment as if the dead man turned his accusing eyes on his observers. Rodney shuddered.

“Someone should check his pulse,” said Tom. “Just to be sure.”

“I’ll do it,” said Morla. She crouched down in the straw, holding her skirts up, away from the gory splatters. She pressed her fingers to the man’s neck. “Nothing,” she said. “And he’s cold.”

Tom swallowed audibly. “What shall we do with him?”

“He’s best off out here,” said Red.

The glassy eyes stared up at Rodney. “We can’t just leave him like this.” 

Morla closed Coresen’s eyes but the eyelids immediately sprang open again, giving the body a sinister semblance of awareness.

“I’ll get something to wrap him in.” Red handed Rodney the lantern and stomped away to begin hauling out a piece of tarpaulin from a stack of debris.

“I ain’t seen no dead body before,” said Tom, quietly.

“I have.” The straw rustled as Morla shifted uneasily. “The older clients, a couple of times. They die happy, at least. And a man hit on the head in a fight once. He was there and then gone, real sudden.”

“You seen a dead person, Mr Aldrin?” Tom asked.

“Yes.” Rodney didn’t elaborate.

Morla’s face turned toward him, half lit by the lantern, half in deep shadow. Could she see the dead in his eyes as he’d heard them in her bleak words? How old had she been when she’d first had to sell herself? What other horrors had she witnessed or experienced? 

“Here we are, let’s get this wrapped around,” said Red.

They wrapped the body up and hauled him into an empty stall.

“Nothin’ else to be done, ‘cept find out who done it,” said Red.

“Let’s get back inside.” Rodney led the way out of the barn, back through the largely disused hotel kitchen and into the main room. It seemed warm and welcoming, even though he knew one of the other guests must be a murderer. Surely it couldn’t be Morla? And Tom, killing him for the sake of a few chets? It didn’t seem very likely. And yet, who else? Red? The Councillor? His timid wife? Rodney sat down at the table once more. He yawned, but didn’t want to sleep. Who could he trust to watch over John in his weakened state? Who could he trust to watch over himself, when John couldn’t defend him?

He pulled the stack of cards toward himself and looked at Morla. Logic, and wanting to turn attention away from John, had led him to throw the spotlight of suspicion on her. She wouldn’t kill, though; not for that, not for the degradation she’d come to expect. What would it take for her to commit murder? “Another game?”

“Might as well.”

“Okay if I look at this?” asked Tom, picking up the discarded newspaper.

“Go ahead,” Penfell said. “The pettiness of local events may amuse _you_.”

Tom ignored the implication and sat down on the settle. “I’ll just have a quick look. I don’t read so good,” he said, ingenuously, “but I like to keep up with the latest ‘wanteds’.”

Rodney froze. He turned to look at John and saw that the drowsy eyes had snapped open fully and he’d pushed himself up on one elbow.

Morla threw down her cards. “Oh, let me see!” She left the table, sat down next to Tom and pulled the newspaper over so that it rested on both of their laps.

“What about our game?” said Rodney. “In fact, why don’t you play too, Tom? Why don’t we all play?”

“No," said Morla. "I’m looking at these. It's very thin, this week."

"Can't have bin much news," said Tom.

"There's a page missing. Oh well, never mind. The wanteds are here, near the back, next to grennets for sale." Morla pointed to the page. “Hey, look at this one. He’s new.”

"Ugly-lookin' customer," said Tom.

She shuddered. “Yeah, he looks real mean. Butch McKay.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50886814848/in/dateposted-public/)

" _You_ can read?" Tom was incredulous.

Morla gave him a withering look. "Yes. And I can count up to five if someone gives me the first few numbers and I go real slow."

Tom just looked confused, but Rodney would have laughed if the situation wasn't heading for disaster.

The pictures weren’t very good. They weren’t accurate and nobody would guess, surely; except Rodney knew that they’d captured John’s hair perfectly.

“Hey, that was Garak calling, wasn’t it?” Rodney put a hand to his ear. “I’m sure I heard him. You two should go and check.”

“Here’s another new one,” said Tom. “Johnny Sundance. Hey, he looks familiar.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50887533586/in/dateposted-public/)

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Oh,” said Morla.

“What? What’s that?” The Councillor heaved himself up from his seat importantly and peered over the top of the newspaper. “Johnny Sundance. Wanted for train robbery with violence.” He bent closer. And then looked directly at John. He snatched up the newspaper and held it toward the light. “Distinguishing features include recent scar on left shoulder. Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”

Rodney let his cards fall and pushed back his chair. What could he do?

John sat up and glowered up at Penfell; he knew he was caught. The Councillor loomed over him and jerked the blankets to one side, gripped the baggy woollen sweater and pulled it down to expose the newly-healed scar on John’s shoulder.

“Aha! Mr Armstrong! Or should I say, Johnny Sundance, infamous outlaw! Someone bring me some rope. We need to tie this man up until we can get him to the nearest Agent!”

oOo

“No! No, you can’t do that!”

John glared at Rodney, willing him to just let the Councillor have his way or someone would be bound to put two and two together and they'd both be tied up.

“Why not? There’ll be a fine reward. What does it say? Here we are, five thousand chets reward!”

“Wow!” Tom looked at John wide-eyed, fear mixed with admiration. “He must be a real tough customer.”

“No, I’m sure he’s not!” Rodney protested. “He tried to get a doctor for your brother!”

“Tried to get away, more like, before we could find out who he is. Tie him up!” repeated Penfell.

"I've got a good length of cord here." A cupboard door slammed and Red came out from behind the counter.

John shivered and drew the blanket up around his shoulders. He couldn't fight, he couldn't run; he just hoped they'd let him keep the blanket and that Rodney would think of something.

“Morla, this is wrong, surely you can see that?” 

Morla backed away, her eyes flicking between John and Rodney. “I don’t know, Buzz,” she said. “I don’t care about the reward, but I’m not getting mixed up with a wanted man.” She opened her mouth and shut it again, then turned away. “I’m sorry, but I think we should tie him up like the Councillor says.”

“But -”

Penfell pulled out a chair from the table. "Thorn, you help me!"

Tom nodded and he and the Councillor hauled John up from the chaise longue and deposited him in the chair. Penfell wrapped the cord round John's chest, tied it tightly and then snapped his fingers at his wife who passed him the scissors from her work bag. He cut the cord then tied John's ankles to the front chair legs and his hands to the back legs.

The bindings were tight and the skin on John's wrists felt pinched and abraded straight away. Rodney looked at him bleakly, his mouth drooping. John shivered.

Rodney picked up the blanket and draped it round John's shoulders, overlapping it at the front.

"What are you doing that for?" snarled Penfell. "He's just a worthless criminal!"

"Worth five thousand chets, according to you," said Rodney, bitterly. "And did it say 'Dead or Alive'?"

"I ain't never heard of a dead man climbing the scaffold," said Tom.

"Well, there you are then."

Nobody seemed to know what to do next then and John almost laughed. What do you do when you’ve just tied up a wanted criminal? What social etiquette applies in such a situation? They opted to ignore him and drifted away, the Penfells to sit by the fire, swapping self-congratulation on having dealt with the situation and Tom to the abandoned chaise longue where he lay down full length and draped the fateful newspaper over his eyes. Red poked at the fire and put on some more logs, and Morla hesitated, then turned away and began clearing away the card game.

Rodney hovered, his hands twitching at his sides, doubt and anxiety clear in his troubled eyes. John frowned heavily at him and jerked his head in the direction of the fireplace. His friend took the hint and moved away. The settle creaked as he sat down.

John closed his eyes. Being tied to a chair was one of his least favourite pastimes. It brought back memories of his capture by the Genii, and yes, that had worked out in the end and he’d won them a useful ally, but the outcome didn’t change the horror that he’d undergone; it didn’t change the memory of his helplessness, his exposure, his illogical but crippling feeling of shame that he was totally at the mercy of his captors and their terrifying Wraith prisoner.

John resolutely turned his mind away from the memory, which only brought him back into the present where his bindings had no give in them and anyone could do anything to him and he wouldn’t be able to stop them. His heart rate increased and he began shivering again, and he knew that he was dealing with the whole ‘being tied up’ thing with less than his usual sangfroid, but his excuse was that he’d had a pretty bad day, on the whole, and it was a good excuse and he was sticking to it. A breath of slightly hysterical laughter escaped his lips. Rodney’s posture tensed, but he remained staring into the flames.

A soft whimpering sob made John’s lips clamp tightly together, but the sound wasn’t his. Greyla stood on the stairs, a blanket trailing from one hand, a soft toy clutched in the other.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50887533521/in/dateposted-public/)

“Greyla, go back to bed!” Penfell’s voice was hard and uncompromising.

“Don’t wanna.” Her lower lip trembled and the lantern light reflected off brimming tears.

“I’ll come and tuck you in, Greyla dear.” Her aunt rose and moved toward the stairs.

“No!” The small voice became defiant and the lips firmed into a tightly compressed pout.

“Do as you’re told, child. If I have to come up there, you’ll be sorry!”

The newspaper slid off Tom’s face. “Hold on there, Councillor, that ain’t no way to speak to a child.”

“She must be frightened, all alone up there,” added Morla.

“I’m not scared!” Greyla announced, her glance over her shoulder at the darkness above belying her statement. “I don’t wanna go to bed ‘cause I’m not tired and it’s not fair!”

Her aunt climbed the stairs, her hand held out. “Come along, dear. Come with Auntie Bea.”

Greyla clutched her toy to her chest, wrapping both hands tightly round its soft body. “No! You’re not my Aunty! And you’re not my Uncle! And you said there’d be dresses and baby grennets and lots of fun stuff and there isn’t! There isn’t!”

John didn’t really think anything of this tirade until the Councillor looked round and laughed uneasily. “Children! The nonsense they come out with!” He turned back to his niece. “Greyla, you get back up those stairs right now!”

Greyla’s eyes had fallen on John. She took a hesitant step down the stairs, her eyes growing large and round. She pointed at John. “That man’s tied up! Why is he tied up? That’s mean!”

“He’s a bad man, dear,” said her Aunt. “We tied him up to keep you safe.”

“No!” Greyla pushed her Aunt aside. “He helped the grennets. He’s not a bad man. He’s not!” Sobs crept into her voice and she wiped tears from her cheeks with her animal friend.

“That’s enough of this nonsense!” Penfell surged to his feet. “You’ll regret defying me, young lady!”

Tom got up too. “We should still stay in groups,” he said, firmly.

Penfell sneered. “We have our murderer now, Thorn. There’s no need.”

“We don’t know that.” Tom folded his arms. “I need to check on Garak, so I’ll come up with you and we’ll all see the little girl’s safe in bed, then we’ll all check on my brother.” He held Penfell’s gaze, determinedly.

“Ridiculous!”

“I’ve a fancy the little girl might settle for me,” Tom added. “And there’re some spare blankets in Garak’s room. We could bed down in there for a few hours.”

Penfell reluctantly conceded and when Tom went up the stairs, Greyla put her hand in his willingly. She looked back at John but he couldn’t quite muster up a reassuring smile.

oOo

A log fell into the hearth and Red used the tongs to replace it in the heart of the fire. He sat down on the settle, took out a pipe and began clearing it out. Rodney, weary in body and mind, shambled over to the chaise longue and sat down. He needed to sleep, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t, not while John was tied stiffly to a chair. He could cut the cords. He could free John and they could just go. But how far would they get on a night like this? John’s eyes were closed, but his body was tense and his hands twisted in their bonds.

Morla sighed and laid her head down on the table. Her chestnut curls were turned to gold by the lantern light, but John’s hair drooped dully and what Rodney could see of his friend’s face was pale and taut.

The windows shook in their frames with another furious gust of wind, but there was no accompanying spatter of raindrops. Perhaps it had stopped. Another gust came along with a high-pitched shriek.

Red started up, quickly pocketing his pipe. “Grennets is spooked.”

“Wasn’t it just the wind?”

“Uh-uh. That’s no wind.” Red stomped over to the door.

“Maybe they’re just not that keen on having a corpse as a sleeping companion,” said Rodney.

“Maybe not. But there’s creatures out there that’ll have been driven out by the storm and they’ll be looking for somewhere to hole up. And something to eat.”

“We should all go and check,” said Morla.

“We can’t leave Neil alone,” said Rodney.

“Why not? If he’s the murderer, we’re all safe anyway and if he’s not, we’re together and the others are together.”

Another distant squeal drifted across from the barn.

“Come or don’t come, the grennets is in trouble.” Red snatched up the lantern and a rifle, opened the door and strode out into the gale.

Rodney checked his pistol. Morla followed Red outside. “John, I -”

“Go with them, Rodney.”

“But -”

“It’s okay, we’ll think of something.”

Just the two of them with no eyes upon them; he wanted to free John and run.

“Go!”

“Buzz, are you coming?” Morla’s voice was raised against the gale.

He followed her outside.

They could hear the grennets stamping and shrieking as they approached the barn.

“Here.” Red gave Morla the lantern and raised his rifle.

Rodney tightened his grip on his pistol.

They entered cautiously. The lantern-light cast dark leaping shadows and glittered off frightened eyes in the tossing heads of the grennets.

Red’s rifle clicked as he chambered a round. He stepped forward and looked into the nearest stall, speaking soothingly to the animal. Then he moved forward, followed by Morla with the lantern, checking each stall, glancing up to the rafters, keeping up a constant flow of soft words to calm the frightened grennets.

Rodney lingered near the entrance. The wind blew up bits of straw and swirled them round, striking sparks of lantern-light. He turned and stared into the darkness, but could see nothing other than the glow of firelight from the house and the looming black shape of the thorn bush hedge which bordered the road.

“Can’t see nothing.” Red’s voice came from the back of the barn.

The grennet nearest to Rodney shifted and squealed suddenly. Rodney spun toward it, but there was nothing there. A guttural hiss from above him was all the warning he had before a heavy weight on his shoulders made his knees buckle and a tearing, raking fire erupted down his right arm and back. Rodney thrust himself upright and spun round, but his attacker clung on. He stumbled under the weight and pain, falling and firing into the writhing body, landing hard, the flashing images of wicked, reaching claws and a mouth of sharp teeth a jerky horror movie as his pistol spat round after round.

The chamber clicked empty, but his fingers didn’t stop jerking until he was surrounded by yellow light and hands were around his.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50886814978/in/dateposted-public/)

“Buzz, it’s dead, you’ve killed it.”

His finger jerked once more, then stopped, trembling, and beyond his stiff, straight arms and the wavering pistol, Rodney saw a great, black shape, a lump of darkness on the ground, motionless, and from the shadow beneath it came a spreading pool of shining black.

“You killed it good,” agreed Red.

Rodney’s arms sagged, his stomach muscles trembled and he would have cracked his head on the stone floor if Morla hadn’t been kneeling beneath his curled shoulders, her hands ready to lower him to her lap.

He flinched and jerked forward again, then rolled away from her onto his left side, gasping at the fire in his shoulder and arm.

“You’re hurt! Where - Oh, there’s blood all down his back! Red, help me!”

Rodney closed his eyes tightly and breathed through his nose, his lips clamped together. His head buzzed with faintness and nausea churned in his stomach. Gentle hands pulled at his shirt.

“Is it… bad? It’s bad isn’t it?” His breath hitched and he swallowed and groaned.

“They’re deep, down the back of your arm and over your shoulder blade,” said Morla. “But you’ll be alright. Can you stand?”

Somehow, Rodney made it to his feet and felt support under his uninjured shoulder. He staggered forward, his eyes closed, the wind was around him and then Morla was telling him to step up. He stumbled up the step to the verandah, leaning heavily and then there was light behind his eyelids and a shocked exclamation.

“McKay!”

oOo

Shock ripped the betraying name from his lips before John could stop it.

Morla and Red froze, her eyes wide, his narrowed. Rodney sagged against Red’s shoulder and moaned. The tableau shattered as Morla strode forward and slammed the rifle and the lantern down on the table and flung out a chair.

“Sit him down,” she said. “And when we’ve dealt with him, we’re having some answers.”

All thoughts of staying together were abandoned as water and medical supplies were fetched.

“What happened out there? What was it?”

“A vrax,” replied Red.

“A what?”

“Vrax! Don’t you know what a vrax is? Here.” Red passed Morla a bundle of off-white cloth. “My clean-washed sheet. Tear it up, while I get his shirt off.”

Rodney had his head down on the table and was breathing sharp and shallow, small moans escaping which grew to gasps of pain as Red sat him up to pull off the remains of his shirt. John craned his neck to see the injuries, which ran in deep parallel furrows down Rodney’s back and arm.

Morla grunted, the cloth taut between her hands. “They won’t tear.”

“That’s ‘cause they’re quality. Left over from the hotel. Lookee there, use Mrs Penfell’s scissors.”

Morla made short work of the sheets, cutting through the deep hems and then tearing long strips. She passed one to Red, who used it to clean the wounds with the water and then sprayed them with something from the medical kit. A pungent disinfectant smell drifted across to John.

Red held out his hand for more of the torn sheet. “C’mon, Missy, let’s have it.”

“Wait.” Morla moved closer to the lantern, holding the cut edge of a strip close to the light. “It’s stained.”

“That it ain’t! They been boiled clean as clean!”

“Look! Where I’ve cut, here.” She pointed.

“Well, that ain’t my cleanin’. That’s something on them scissors.”

Morla reached for the scissors, opened them wide and studied them. “It’s red. Right there in the hinge.” Her voice was quiet, entirely without inflection. “It’s blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Penfell's scissors! That mousey little woman - is she really a murderess? And now both of our heroes are suffering. How will they defend themselves?
> 
> Thank you for reading so far. I hope you are enjoying my labour of love. Please comment and kudos!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood in the hinge of Mrs Penfell’s scissors, Rodney injured and John still tied up - what dramatic events will unfold next? Read on…

“No. Oh, no, no, no. This is all wrong. Murder and outlaws and I don’t know what.” Red sank down into a chair and put his head in his hands.

Morla straightened up slowly, the scissors held open, an accusing ‘x marks the spot’. “Anyone could have used them.”

“That they couldn’t,” said Red. “Missus had her work bag with her ‘til she went up, before.” He shook his head. “Why’d all you crazy folks have to stop here?”

“Snap out of it, Red,” ordered John. “R- Buzz needs help!”

“I don’t know why you bother, _Mr Armstrong_ ,” said Morla. She began tending Rodney’s wounds nevertheless, efficiently placing adhesive closures where they were deepest. “I’ll be wanting your full story in just a minute. And no more lies!” She glared at him.

Red got up and wearily fixed the fire. “I’m too old for all this,” he said. Nevertheless, he poured out the ubiquitous mugs of hot latcha and even held John’s for him to drink.

“There. That’s you bound up." Morla tidied away the medical kit. "How’s that feel?”

“Awful,” said Rodney.

“Well, I’ve given you a shot of painkiller, which should kick in soon. Think you can make it to the chaise?”

Rodney grunted assent and John watched anxiously as he tottered, with Morla’s help, to the chaise and lay down on his uninjured side.

Morla drew two chairs close and she and Red sat down.

The cords stung and burned at John’s wrists and ankles. He’d jerked against them involuntarily each time Rodney had flinched. “Any chance of cutting me loose? Now that you know I’m not a murderer.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50901728752/in/dateposted-public/)

“You’re an outlaw.” She sagged and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “We’ll see. First, we need to get everything straight,” said Morla. “I don’t know about you, but I’m worried for that little girl.”

“You think the littl’un was telling the truth?” asked Red. “When she said them Penfells ain’t her aunt and uncle?”

“Maybe. Something don’t ring true about the way they act around each other. But I don’t see why that would have anything to do with Coresen.”

John thought back to the stagecoach and the man sitting opposite him, looking with suspicious eyes over the top of his newspaper. “His paper! He was reading, in the coach.”

“And Penfell’s paper was missing some pages!” said Morla, snapping her fingers.

“They bin up to no good?” suggested Red. “They killed him for something in his paper?”

“What happened to it?”

On the stage, Garak had been driving and Coresen had looked out of the window. “He rolled it up and put it in his pocket,” said John.

“There was nothing funny going on between him and them when we walked from the stage, or when you set out for Tychor,” said Morla. “He must have read something later.”

“Dint see him again after we ate,” said Red.

“He played cards with Tom,” Rodney murmured, his eyes opening slightly, then closing again. “He was rude to Morla.”

“That he was,” she said. “And that was the last time he was seen. He went into his room, I guess.”

“And finished reading his newspaper,” said John.

“And confronted them?” Morla frowned. “I’m going up to look for it”

“In his room? They’ll hear you.” John’s feeling of helplessness intensified. “Untie me. I’ll go.”

“No. I haven’t decided about you two, yet.” Morla stood up and looked down first at John and then at Rodney. “Johnny Sundance and Butch McKay,” she said. “You don’t look like outlaws to me.”

“Them that look fair are usually the worst,” commented Red.

“Thanks so much for that,” muttered Rodney.

oOo

The pain had dulled a little, but lines of fire ran down his arm and back and he kept reliving the tearing rake of the creature’s claws as it scored deeply into his flesh.

“McKay?”

Rodney groaned. “No, don’t.”

“Rodney, come on. They’ve blown our cover out of the water.”

“You mean you have.”

“Yeah, I think I might be a little off my game.”

Rodney grunted agreement and opened his eyes. His friend’s face was pale. Not the bloodless, chalk-white it had been, but he looked stiff and cold and extremely uncomfortable.

“You won’t be able to move.”

“I can’t move.”

“No, even when you’re cut free, you’ll have stiffened up.”

“Yeah.”

There was a soft, padding tread on the stairs. Morla crept down, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand. She held it up like a trophy, sat down and spread it out on her lap, leafing quickly through the pages.

Rodney glanced at the unfamiliar text. He'd grasped the planet's written numerals but hadn't worked out much of the writing system.

“Grennet rustling. No, that’s not it.”

"What's this?" Red asked, his wizened finger tremulously pointing to a headline.

“Five outlaws put to the scaffold,” said Morla promptly.

Red eyed Rodney and John pointedly, but said to Morla, "You read mighty purty for a wh- " He paused, cleared his throat loudly and continued: "for a young lady."

"For a whore? Even a whore can educate herself if she's a mind to," said Morla sharply. She returned to the paper. "Here we are." She read aloud: “ _‘Hefferen daughter still in kidnappers’ hands. It was revealed this morning that the wealthy Hefferen family have given in to the demands of kidnappers, depositing the sum of 50,000 chets in an unknown location. Their daughter, Angreylana, 6, has, so far, not been returned and it is feared that the kidnappers will either dispose of their victim or that further demands will be made. Lorentik Hefferen, 42, has said that he would pay anything for his daughter’s safe return. His wife, Rosenta, 38, has not been seen in public since her daughter was taken.’_ Kidnappers!” said Morla.

“And murderers,” added Red.

“Which of them did it?” Rodney shuddered. The pain of his own wounds made it all too easy to imagine what Coresen must have gone through.

“Surely not Mrs?” said Red.

“They were her scissors,” said Morla.

“What are we gonna do?” Red took out his pipe, stuck it in his mouth and chewed at the stem.

“Firstly, untie John,” said Rodney. He eased himself upright, gritting his teeth against the pain. “We’re no threat to you.”

“You’re outlaws,” said Morla.

John sighed and sagged in his bonds. “Not by choice. That’s not who we are.”

“Who are you, then? Tell us. Tell us your real names and why we shouldn’t hand you in to an Agent.”

John told them. Wearily, haltingly, winning no prizes for a coherent narrative, he told them everything; the Coalition, the wraith, the card game and the jail, the outlaws and the train robbery and the fact that they needed to get to Teksa’corani; to the Gate and to Atlantis. When he had finished he sagged further and his pain and exhaustion showed in the lines between his brows and the whiteness around his compressed lips. “Please,” he said simply. “Untie me.”

“I don’t think so.” The crisp voice rang out firmly from the top of the stairs. Mrs Penfell, a pistol in her hand regarded them with a sneer of triumph. “You will not release that man.”

Morla pushed back her chair and stood up. “We know who you are, what you’ve done!”

“Stay where you are!”

“The game’s up, missus,” said Red.

She descended the stairs smoothly, the pistol and her gaze unwavering. “The _game_ , as you call it, is far from up.” 

Her husband hovered uncertainly at the top of the stairs. “Tirla, I don’t think -”

“That’s why I do the thinking, Erran,” she interrupted. 

She halted at the foot of the stairs, a safe distance from retaliation. Not that Rodney felt capable of retaliation, and he was uncomfortably aware of the absence of his sidearm. Had he left it in the barn? 

“Now you will tie that other outlaw up.”

John strained against his bonds. “Put down your weapon, Mrs Penfell. You don’t want to do this.”

“Do what?” she enquired. “I am merely requesting that a wanted criminal be suitably restrained. Tie him up! Now!”

Morla stood slowly. “There isn’t any more rope.”

“Use those!” Mrs Penfell gestured impatiently at the leftover strips of sheet.

“Morla, don’t,” said John. “What do you think she’s gonna do? She can’t leave you and Red alive! Or Tom.”

“Shut up! Erran, get down here and gag this man!”

“She’ll say we killed you, she’ll say we kidnapped Greyla!”

“Erran!”

Rodney knew before it happened; from the darting of the old man’s eyes, the twitching of his fingers. And Rodney knew it should be him, but he was too far away, he’d never make it. And Red wouldn’t either, and the old man must know that, but he’d do it anyway, to give Morla a chance.

The rifle was on the table and Red lunged for it, a wild, flailing rush that drew Mrs Penfell’s full attention and drew her fire so that the shot from her pistol rang out its deadly thunder and Red clutched at his chest and fell.

Morla had moved fast. As soon as Red lunged one way, she lunged the other and as he fell to the floor, blood running from his chest and his lips, the door crashed back on its hinges and Morla ran out into the night. 

Mrs Penfell fired and splinters flew from the doorframe. She shrieked with frustration and snatched up the rifle. “Erran Penfell, get down those stairs and tie that man to a chair!” Then she was gone, into the wind and the once more pouring rain.

Rodney moved, ignoring the pain in his arm and back, he stood and staggered past John, pushing off the chair and weaving his way to the door.

A bulky shape stood in his way.

“Let me past! She’ll kill Morla!”

“I - I don’t -” The blustering Councillor was gone and in his place, a wavering figure of doubt. “I never meant for anyone to die.”

Rodney pushed past him and reeled into the wall. A shot sounded from the direction of the barn. He stumbled out into the night, the lashing rain soaking him instantly, but shocking his body into action. His feet splashed through the standing water in the yard. Another shot sounded. The barn was dark. He should have brought the lantern. There was the black shape of the dead vrax, there, a tossing head of a stamping grennet; and there, a faint silhouette. A door at the back of the barn stood open. It banged in the fierce wind. A weapon; he needed a weapon. He snatched a driving whip off the wall and fixed his gaze on the open door, willing strength to his failing legs, gritting his teeth against the pain of his wounds.

oOo

“Untie me! Penfell, untie me, dammit!” John strained against the cords and they cut deeper into his wrists but didn’t give.

Penfell hadn’t moved. Rodney had gone; out into the night to confront a killer, unarmed and injured and John fumed and raged and could do nothing, nothing to help his friend. A shot sounded and then another.

“Penfell!” John shouted at the stunned man. 

He began to move, sightlessly staring at the ground, but John’s hopes were dashed when the man merely went past him and thudded heavily onto one of the settles. His fingers writhed and wove together. “She shouldn’t have killed him,” he muttered, over and over again. “She shouldn’t have done it.”

“What’s going on down there?” Tom thumped down the stairs. “Was that shootin’? Who’s shootin’?”

“Tom, untie me!”

“Councillor? What’s happening? Red?” Tom sank to the floor next to Red’s body. “He’s killed! Killed dead!”

“Tom! Rodney, I mean Buzz is out there. Mrs Penfell’s after Morla. Cut me loose!”

“What’s that?” Tom jumped up. “I ain’t cutting you loose, outlaw.”

“You go, then! Go on, get out there!”

Tom backed away from the body, his eyes wide and scared. Lightning flashed and flickered and the thunder that followed burst in wave after rolling wave of numbing violence. John roared wordlessly along with the anger of the storm, yelling out his fear and helplessness. Then the deafening noise ceased. There was one final flash, one final clap of thunder and then just the drumming, slashing rain. John sagged forward.

oOo

Rain drove into Rodney’s face through the back door of the barn. He stood on the threshold, and squinted against it. A shadow moved against the looming silhouettes of trees. Another shot fired, and there was a flashing image of a static figure and one in motion: Morla, approaching her pursuer with a hay fork, tines extended. Lightning flickered, Mrs Penfell turned and aimed directly at Morla; she couldn’t miss. Rodney lashed out with the whip, the gun fired, Morla stumbled backward.

He’d failed and Morla would die and it would be his fault! But, no, she was moving, splashing and slapping at the slurry of liquid dirt to try to reach the handle of the hay fork as Mrs Penfell shrieked with frustration and raised the rifle once more. 

Then another shadow sprang; a great leap of fury from the darkness, hissing and snarling. and its claws and teeth shone bright, knife-sharp as lightning flashed again and again, and the beast’s dreadful howling and snarling was drowned by deafening claps of thunder that rolled on and on as the wild creature sank its teeth and claws into its struggling prey. The struggles ceased. The vrax stood atop Mrs Penfell’s body and in a final flicker of lightning it turned its savage gaze on Rodney, its head down, its tail erect and lashing at the sky. It opened its mouth and roared out its ownership of the kill. Then it circled its lithe body, closed its powerful jaws around its victim once more and dragged her away, into the darkness and the rain.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50901728672/in/dateposted-public/)

oOo

Tom’s horrified gaze travelled from the body to the open door. He staggered toward it, stiff-legged and muttering. “Need to go home. Take Garak and get home. Soon as this storm’s gone we’ll go.”

“Tom. Tom, please, go and find Rodney, find Morla.”

“Need to go home.”

“Tom, cut me loose!”

“What?” Rain poured through the open door. Tom called into the night, his voice shaking. “Who’s that? Who’s there?”

John couldn’t hear the response and he strained his neck around, dreading what he’d see.

Tom stepped back and in through the door came Morla, dripping wet and mud-stained, but apparently unharmed. And then Rodney, shivering, hunched and grey-faced, but upright; just about. Tom caught him as he swayed and helped him over to the chaise.

John couldn’t help grinning. “McKay!” He couldn’t help it and he knew that laughter, hysterical with relief, lurked beneath and would break out if he didn’t thrust it down. It would break out and then, who knew what else would be released? He swallowed the lump in his throat and breathed as deeply as his bonds would allow and just grinned. Because there was Rodney, alive; and even though John was tied up, cold and stiff and aching and his friend was trembling and in obvious pain, they were both here and alive and John was overwhelmingly, shatteringly grateful for that.

“Where’s Mrs P?” asked Tom.

Penfell’s sagging head rose.

“Dead,” said Morla.

The man’s head sagged further and he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. John almost, but not quite, felt sorry for him.

“Dead?” Tom echoed.

Morla pushed him onto a chair and sat down herself. “She killed Coresen, Tom. And she killed Red. And she would’ve killed me.” Morla explained and explained again and Tom’s head still shook.

“Greyla’s auntie? I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.” He lapsed into bewildered silence.

Rodney was soaked to the skin and so was Morla. Red’s body lay on the floor, there was a sick man upstairs and a little girl who needed her parents. And John was still tied up.

“Morla?” Her arms were wrapped around her waist, her gaze on the floor. “Morla?” She looked up and nodded slightly, then rose without speaking, took the scissors from the table and cut John’s bonds. 

oOo

Rodney looked drowsily down on his sleeping companions, allowing his eyes to blur so that the golden highlights and dim shadows of their still forms merged into softness. His bed, the old chaise, wasn’t characterised by softness, but John had insisted he take it, as the most recently injured, even though the muscle spasms John had experienced when he’d been untied had reduced him to a jerking, gasping, contorted figure of sharp, hitching breaths and groaning agony.

John’s body was lax and silent now, his breaths steady and even, and the semi-circle of light marked out between the chaise and the two settles was a small haven of relative comfort. A mattress had been scavenged from one of the rooms and piled with all the blankets they could find and John was curled around Morla who was curled around Greyla, because they’d thought it best to wake the little girl and bring her downstairs and tell her that she would soon be going home.

Tom was with his brother and Red’s body had been carried sadly out to the old kitchen. Penfell hadn’t moved from the settle. He hadn’t spoken or looked up since he’d found out his wife was dead. They’d talked about what to do with him, coming to no definite conclusion and merely tying his hands in case he decided to take up where his wife left off. As a kidnapper and accessory to murder he deserved the full force of the law; but the law on this world would mean death. Did he deserve that?

A spring was digging into Rodney’s side and he eased himself further back on the chaise. John began to snore. A log collapsed and the fire flared.

Penfell’s eyes glimmered in the orange light. Slowly, he eased himself away from the back of the settle, sitting up straight and rigid, his moustache bristling out from his upper lip. He looked directly at Rodney. But there was no challenge in his gaze and his brows twitched together. He stood, slowly, his eyes still locked with Rodney’s and he didn’t move until Rodney gave a very small nod. Penfell nodded stiffly in return, then he was gone from the circle of light. His footsteps patted steadily toward the door. He didn’t stop or turn aside for weapon or warm clothing or any possessions. The door opened and closed. He was gone.

Rodney looked down once more at the three sleepers and allowed the warmth and light to blend and fade.

oOo

“The road up to the Gap’s blocked, too.” Tom shut the door behind him. There was mud on his boots and splattered up his jeans, but his clothes were dry. The rain had stopped.

John swallowed his mouthful of breakfast. "Any sign of Penfell?"

Tom shook his head. "Ground's all churned up."

He'd taken a grennet and gone, taking nothing with him. Gone to lose himself in the mountains or to plunge down into the valley as John so nearly had the night before? Perhaps they'd never know.

John scraped his plate clean of the sloppy porridge-like mess that he and Morla had cooked for breakfast. He didn’t know what most of the ingredients were and didn’t care. When he’d woken he’d been stiff and in pain, but once he’d eased his aching body through a few stretches he’d realised he was ravenous with hunger and had added anything to the cooking pot that looked like it would give a few calories.

Rodney mumbled, his mouth full of porridge.

“You shouldn’t speak with your mouth full!” Greyla reprimanded, sternly.

Rodney glowered. “Those rules are for children, not for adults with important matters to discuss.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“McKay?”

“What?”

“Important matters?”

“Oh.” Rodney scooped up another spoonful, awkwardly, as his right arm was immobilized in a sling. “Yes. What’s our plan?”

“Same as it’s always been, Rodney. Get to Teksa’corani, get to the Gate.”

Rodney sighed. “Yes, I know that, but what now, precisely?”

“I’m staying here,” said Tom. “Garak’s getting better. I think he’s best kept quiet until help comes or we can both ride back up to the Gap.”

“Will help come?” John asked. “With both ways blocked?”

“They’ll get the Agents involved. They’ve got speakers at each office. Tychor’ll have been onto the Gap and one or other of them’ll come and check things out, at some point.”

“The Agents?” Rodney dropped his spoon. “When you say, ‘at some point’, do we need to be listening out for the unwelcome beat of grennet hooves? We should go!”

“Cool it, Rodney. I’m guessing they’ll be a while.” He looked at Morla.

“It’ll be a day or so, I’d think,” she said.

“What about you?” asked Rodney. “Taking pickled morlas from Granny to Mom? Do you have to be somewhere?”

She blushed. “Well, that wasn’t strictly true, although Madam Frey pickled those morlas herself and gave them to me to give to Madam Karnet down in Tychor, by way of recommendation. I fancied a change of scene, you see.”

"I want to go home! You said I was going home!" Greyla pointed an accusing finger at each of them in turn. "You and you and you _and you!_ "

"We'll get you home, kid," said John.

“Plonzo wants to go home too!” she insisted, sitting her stuffed animal on the table. It was like a compressed version of Jar Jar Binks and John guessed it was meant to be a grennet. “Come on, Plonzo,” she said to her toy. “It’s time for your exercise.” She bounced the toy off the table and over the floor, talking to it and making grennet noises.

"Where do her folks live?” John asked. “These Hefferens?"

"They've got places all over," said Morla.

"Big family, big money," Tom said. "According to that there news report, little'un was taken from their ranch house up near Free Weston."

"Free Weston?" Rodney tapped his spoon against his tin plate rhythmically. "Where's that? What's free about it?" 

"Nothin', for folks like us," said Morla. "It's a big town. A long time back, when it was settled, there were plots of land given free for those that could fence 'em in quick enough."

"Which was them as already had the money for fencing," added Tom.

"Another example of an equitable society," mused Rodney. "What?"

The tapping continued. John glared. He supposed he should be glad Rodney was in such a chirpy mood, although that was at least partly down to the painkiller Morla had given him. He reached forward and jerked Rodney's spoon out of his hand, then set it down on his own plate with exaggerated care. "What are our options for getting out of here? We can't sit here and wait for someone to show up, especially not if they're Agents."

"There's the old mining trail," said Tom. "You head up the back there til you hit the ridge, and the trail runs pretty much due north. Down Swaddle's Dip, up Coan Mountain, then circles round til you meet the head of Weston Valley."

"That's a fair old ride, Tom." Morla drew her finger through a patch of spilt latcha. "Have you been that way?"

"Sure, once or twice. Well, maybe once. In the summer. And not as far as Weston."

"It sounds like a hard ride," said John. "What d'you think, Rodney?"

"Do we have a choice? It's that or sit and wait for Agents to come and take us to a nice cosy jail cell."

"Food's gonna be tight," said John. "We need stuff that’ll travel and you three need enough until help arrives.”

“Four, with Garak,” said Tom. “Not that he’s up to eating much yet.”

“Now, hold on a minute.” Morla sat back, her arms folded. “I haven’t said I’m staying.”

“You’ve got nothing to run from, Morla,” said John.

“I know. But it’s not as if I’ve got a great life to run to, is it? And look at the pair of you!” She waved a hand at the two men. “You’re neither of you in the best of shape. You’ll need someone with you.”

John would have liked to leap up and prove her wrong, but his strained muscles from his fall the previous night and his usual stiffness kept him in his seat. “Look, it’s nice of you to -”

“No, it’s not. I’m more than happy to head for Weston. It’s time I tried my luck in a big town. And as for Greyla, you might think she’s best off here, but wealthy folk like the Hefferens aren’t popular and it’s a toss up whether she’d be returned for the reward money or just kept and ransomed again.”

“What, even by the Agents?”

Morla shrugged and looked at Tom, who grimaced and said, “The old guy up at the Gap’s fair enough, but down in Tychor… He’s a mean customer, that one.”

oOo

“So, what, we take her with us?” Rodney’s arm and back were beginning to throb again. He folded his left arm over his right, gripping the elbow and hunching his shoulders forward. A long, hard ride didn’t appeal one little bit, but it seemed like they had no choice. A long, hard ride with a small child was even less appealing.

John’s lower lip was drawn in between his teeth and his brows crunched together in thought. His friend was in no shape for a long trail ride either, and, considering his own physical state and John’s with bleak honesty, Rodney’s heart sank like a lead weight within his chest. 

They were right, those in authority, who’d decided that he and John should be recalled to Earth. They were too old for this kind of hardship; this hunted, hounded life of hard knocks and constant threat. So, why the sinking heart? If, no, _when_ they got off this planet, would an Earth-bound life of suburban comfort and predictable routine be so bad? And a desk job for John with a few rounds of speeches and hand-shaking? 

Logic said no. No, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. It would be the best way forward, the best way they could share their experiences and expertise and help lead their home planet forward into a more - Rodney searched in his mind for a phrase - a more ‘intergalactically aware’ future. 

But logic, unfortunately, seemed not to be in the driving seat. Even injured, hunted and cut off in the middle of a godforsaken, wind-blasted, waterlogged mountain range, Rodney couldn’t help the sick feeling in his stomach when he thought of leaving Atlantis. Atlantis was his home. It was his home and he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to live there, always. Whether that was possible and what it meant for him and Jennifer, he wasn’t sure, but he was sure that he wouldn’t be happy if he left. And although he would readily forego his current discomfort, he knew now that he couldn’t exchange the challenges and possibilities of Atlantis for a staid, Earthbound life, with its daily diet of traffic jams, bureaucracy and the petty barbs of his envious colleagues. 

“If the kid’s not safe here, then we take her with us,” John said. “We’ll take her home and hand her over to her parents. Rodney?”

His sister’s face sprang into his mind. Her face as she’d look if Madison were taken from her. “Yes. We’ll take her.”

Rodney’s agreement was the trigger for a military campaign of preparations. Morla was the Chief of Staff, directing and encouraging, calculating their needs and making the most of their limited resources. Rodney’s physical resources were very limited, he found; even packing bedding into neat rolls was too much for him and Morla made him lie down on the chaise once more and merely oversee the proceedings.

Tom was directed to bring down the Penfells' bags and John sat on the settle with them before him, sorting through the items for anything that might be useful. He moved stiffly, with one hand pressed to his stomach, his jaw tightening as he bent forward to toss clothing into one pile or another.

“Are you going to be able to ride?”

John paused in his activity. “Are you?”

Communication passed silently between them. They were in this together, as always, weathering literal and metaphorical storms together, because they had to. Rodney’s chin lifted; he’d do it if Sheppard could. John smirked and raised an eyebrow; he’d do it if it killed him and, if he had to, lay down his life for all of them. Rodney sniggered. So did John.

oOo

They’d set out at nightfall with Lara, whereas now the grey light of pre-dawn made a ghostly monochrome landscape as they rode up the hill directly behind the waystation. The grennet’s neck stretched forward in front of John and its powerful hindquarters thrust it higher, over the rocky ground, picking its way up through winding channels washed and scoured by the rain and storm.

Where was Lara? And Ferdan? Were they still travelling west toward a new life, toward hope? John tried to work out how many days it was since they’d parted and how many before that he and Rodney had been abandoned on this planet. He made it about two weeks, although the days felt longer here than Earth days.

Was she riding now? Had they got an early start on their days’ journey, taking them, taking her ever further and further away? Her eyes were before him once more, open and accepting; accepting all of him - the good and the bad and the hidden things that he’d buried far down and deep, that now he would never have the opportunity to share, where perhaps she might have brought light and comfort to those black crevices in his heart.

They climbed and he leant forward in the saddle against the gradient. Greyla was perched before Morla. She hadn’t stopped talking since they’d left, but that was okay; there was no one to hear. Rodney had been mounted on the steadiest of the grennets, grey hairs on its muzzle and a wise, tolerant expression in its eyes. He was unbalanced with one arm in a sling, but the old grennet would follow the others even if Rodney let the reins fall. John rode Jar Jar, who seemed to trust him. He was smaller than the other grennets but looked like he’d be good for a nice turn of speed, which John would have been keen to try except his body hadn’t recovered from the abuse it had taken on the night of the storm. His arms and shoulders were still sore and strained and his stomach muscles had once again reduced him to a curled-up ball of pain when he’d been woken that morning. They’d loosened up a bit and were loosening more as he rode, but the floating burn and occasional irritant twitches radiating out from his scar tissue and damaged nerves told him that their strength was limited.

The ridge above him became tinged with soft pink light, brightening slowly with the rising sun. Morla urged her mount up a steeper slope, its hooves skidding and biting into the loose shale. She reached firmer ground and turned.

“This is the trail.” Wind whipped loose strands of hair in front of her face. She grinned and her cheeks were pink above the swathes of her scarf.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50901728792/in/dateposted-public/)

The pack animal followed her up, then Rodney, then John. Their route ran just below the top of the ridge and, looking north, John could see the worn groove undulating over the rise and fall of the land until the trail and the ridge faded into the blue distance.

The bundle of old clothes that was Rodney sniffed.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

They’d taken everything that would help to keep them warm, ransacking the hotel and sorting through the Penfells' baggage and had put on as many layers as they could both under and over their coats. The sky was clear, just a narrow band of cloud on the horizon. Morla said she thought it might snow.

The wind was from the west and so, as they rode, the ridge sheltered them from the worst of its chill, but the cold air still wormed its way in amongst the layers of John’s clothing and the movement of riding wasn’t enough to keep his blood pumping warmth around his body. His toes were soon numb as well as his fingertips and the tip of his nose. He couldn’t hear Greyla’s light chattering voice anymore. Had they been foolish to bring her on such a ride? Should they have left her before the warm fire back in the waystation?

They stopped when the sun was as high as it would get in the winter and ate some hard, tasteless cookies and drank some latcha, which still retained some heat because Morla had swathed it about with blankets and strapped it onto the pack animal so that it rested on the warm fur. They couldn’t have lit a fire, anyway; there were no trees this high.

Greyla had slept as they rode, relaxed in the crook of Morla’s arm. She had woken refreshed and jumped up and down as she ate in an enviable display of energy, laughing at her hiccups.

Rodney ate silently. He coughed and winced.

“How are you holding up, McKay?”

“Fine.”

The terse answer was worrying in itself. A complaining McKay was a healthy McKay as far as John was concerned. Rodney tugged irritably at the scarf at his neck, loosening the trailing ends. His cheeks were faintly pink.

In the afternoon they rode on, following the trail to cross the heads of valleys which stretched away far to their right, down toward the distant plains. The stillness around them was complete, their movements the only ones in the sandy grey landscape. John spotted a circling bird high above but saw no other wildlife and heard only the wind blustering in his ears, the click and crunch of the grennet’s hooves and Greyla’s sporadic chatter and singing.

John’s shoulders had loosened, but the pain in his stomach had resolved itself into a continuous burning line down his right side, radiating out from the scar he’d received when he was trapped in the fallen building with Ronon. What was Ronon doing now? Tearing round the Galaxy, banging heads and taking names? Or pacing in front of the Gate on Atlantis, with gritted teeth and a snarl for all who were foolish enough to approach? What John would give to hear that snarl now, to have that lanky figure beside him on the trail, swaying loosely with the motion of his mount, pushing it to a skittering gallop and then turning on a dime, mocking John’s slow progress with a challenging grin. 

The light was failing as they headed down into the broad valley known as Swaddle’s Dip. A line of trees huddled against the river that had cut the valley and they found a spot amongst them and set up their camp. John tied a rope between two trees. Morla flung a large tarpaulin over the top. They both fetched rocks from the streambed to weigh down either side, while Greyla gathered firewood.

Rodney sat on the ground, pulling at the fastenings of his coat, wrenching at his layered collars, hampered by his bound arm. He swore loudly.

“What’s up, Rodney?”

“I can’t get this off.”

“Keep it on. The temperature’s gonna drop pretty low.”

“Too hot.”

John knelt down beside his friend. He knew from the flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, the line between Rodney’s brows and the lost droop to his mouth; he knew before he placed his hand on Rodney’s forehead and felt the unnatural dry heat.

He had a fever. His wounds were infected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rodney! Out in the wilderness on a freezing night and with a long way still to go - where will our heroes find safety?
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and support! They really make a difference to me!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes are in trouble now! Miles from anywhere and Rodney’s wounds infected. Will they get to Free Weston in time?

Morla quickly kindled a fire to heat some water. John tried to be gentle as he removed Rodney’s clothes, but even so his friend cried out in pain and when John took off his undershirt, the skin around the bandages was hot and red and swollen. Rodney shivered and John draped a blanket round his other shoulder.

“How bad is it?” His teeth chattered. “Tell me, Sheppard, how bad does it look?”

“Not good.” The deepest parts of the scratches oozed with yellow discharge.

“Here, let me.”

John moved aside and let Morla bathe the wounds thoroughly. Rodney’s fists were clenched tight and moans escaped his white-edged lips.

“I’m sorry. I know it hurts. You’re doing good.”

“Am I?” Rodney’s teeth chattered.

She nodded. “Real good.”

“Do you have anything to fight infection?” John asked.

“There’s salt in the water,” she said. “But I’ve nothing else. That kind of thing’s expensive.”

A bar of gold would buy plenty of medication, John thought. “Will we make it to Free Weston tomorrow?”

“It’s a long way.” Morla dipped the cloth in the water once more and cleaned around some of the shallower scratches on Rodney’s arm. “If we start early we might.” She paused in her cleaning and looked at John. “We should try.”

Rodney’s shivers increased. John nodded, silently, his concern for his friend growing.

“There. All done now.” Morla rebandaged the wounds and John wrapped Rodney up against the cold night air. They ate a bland but filling stew of grain and a few scraps of vegetables and drank hot latcha to chase away the cold. Greyla sat on Morla’s lap, only her face visible. John sat close against Rodney, feeling his friend shuddering and his weight pressing against his side.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50910865011/in/dateposted-public/)

“We should sing,” announced Greyla.

“It’s time for bed, little grennet.” Morla bent over the little girl and put her arms around her. “We need to be up before the sun again.”

Greyla giggled. “Just a little song. Just a tiny one.” A finger and thumb emerged from her wrappings indicating the tininess of her needs.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Mr Armstrong, you sing first!” The little hand pointed a commanding finger at John.

“Now, Greyla, don’t pester John. He’s tired.”

John remembered the Athosian children when they had first come to Atlantis. He had told them the story of Nightmare on Elm Street and they’d looked at him with utter confusion. He began to hum the melody of ‘You are my sunshine’. Greyla smiled. Then he sang the chorus, deliberately avoiding the verses as he recalled Johnny Cash’s gravelly voice singing the sadly plaintive lyrics. 

He would have stopped, but Greyla began to sing the song and, when she faltered, John joined in again. Greyla clapped when they’d finished. Next to him, Rodney’s shoulders shook.

“Rodney? Are you alright, buddy?”

“Your singing is so bad, Sheppard.” He was laughing.

“Yeah, well, it’s good enough for a campfire.”

“It was very sweet, John.” Morla smiled across the flames.

John felt his face heat from more than the closeness of the campfire. He couldn’t help turning his head away, as he always seemed to when a compliment was directed at him and he wasn’t ready to play up to it by acting smug and entitled. At his side, Rodney’s gaze was directed straight across the campfire at Morla, his cheeks flushed with more than fever and his eyes intent, as if within sight and scent of a ZPM.

“You now!” Greyla wriggled round in Morla’s lap and looked up at her.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure if I know anything suitable for little ears,” said Morla.

Greyla tugged at one ear. “Why not?”

Morla laughed. “Alright, here’s a really old one. I remember my Ma singing this to me when I was a little girl like you.”

She began to sing, soft and low, a simple country tune:

_"Oh, my love tells me softly,  
That I'm dear to his heart,  
And he lays gentle kisses,  
Swearing we'll never part.  
But his kisses, like flowers,  
They all wither and die.  
And I'm left here behind him,  
With the wind's lonesome sigh._

_There's a soft wind over the meadows,  
Bringing flower scents to me,  
And the sweet wind from the mountains,  
Carries hope we'll be free,  
'Cross the land, 'cross the prairie, 'til the eve of the day,  
When the cold wind from Teksa’corani,  
Blows my dreams far away.”_

[[Click here for Morla's song](https://youtu.be/aUB1_dthTvY)]  


Rodney's shoulders were shaking again, but he wasn’t laughing. John patted him awkwardly, and the bitter wind howled a lonely cry on the slopes above them; and they were cold and tired and so very far from home. He slipped an arm around Rodney's back and, careful of his friend’s wounds, simply held him close.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50910864931/in/dateposted-public/)

oOo

Rodney was frightened. He’d known his wounds were infected, but he’d also known there was little they could do. Throughout the ride, he had felt his strength draining with alarming rapidity and, when he’d slid down from his grennet at the end of the day, he had wanted to tear his clothes away from his burning, aching limbs and plunge his arm and shoulder into the icy waters of the river, just to get some relief.

Morla’s face had blurred across the campfire, so that one moment she was the young woman who’d teased him on the stage and the next she was cowering in the rain, Mrs Penfell’s contorted features looming over her in the flickering lightning. And then she was Jennifer, her face alternately frightened and loving and then angry, so that he didn’t know what he felt anymore and maybe he never had, and he wished someone would just tell him so that maybe he could go back to being Rodney McKay and not some strange lover or husband or father whose rules and boundaries he didn’t understand.

His wounds throbbed intensely and he knew his friends were desperately concerned. The words they spoke and the words they didn’t speak told him that. It would be an early start tomorrow and a long, hard ride to get to Free Weston in time to find him some help.

Their shelter provided minimal relief from the bitter cold, though John’s body was warm at his back and Morla’s at his front, and she herself was curled around Greyla who was closest to the dying fire. If his arm hadn’t burned he could have draped it over the woman he’d known for such a very few turbulent days.

Rodney’s head ached and his thoughts spun. He was afraid of tomorrow.

oOo

John had slept lightly, as if he were holed up in an area occupied by hostile forces. The hostile forces in this case were the cold, Rodney’s infection and the sheer distance they had to travel. But more than that, his own body was hostile to the achievement of their goal and John had directed his military mind to wake him early so that he could steal a march on that particular opponent.

When he woke, it was still dark and the fire had died down to the faintest glow, but John knew by the quality of the air and his own internal clock that dawn would not be long in coming. He assessed his situation before moving. The ache in his side had barely dulled during his night’s rest and as he began to stretch slightly it returned in full force. He gritted his teeth against the pain and struggled out from under their shelter, tucking the blankets firmly around Rodney’s over-hot form.

He stood, but then fell to his knees, as his stomach muscles clamped tight against the cold and locked into a solid spasm of agony. There had been a light snowfall during the night and wetness seeped through the knees of his pants as it melted beneath him. John took firm command of his lungs, ignoring the jerking hitches in his breath as knives jabbed at his abdomen, and concentrating furiously on the long, deep in and out, slowly, slowly uncurled his body to release the granite-hard clenched muscles into trembling, shaking laxness.

He ended on his hands and knees, his head down, letting his stomach sag and tentatively drawing it in again. Teyla did a pose like this, where you had to curl everything in and then stretch it out, dipping your back and looking up at the sky. John did it now, to the best of his currently very meagre ability, longing for the warmth of the gym on Atlantis and, better still, the heat and powerful massage of the showers. And Teyla. Teyla, solid and fierce, gentle and ruthless. Teyla who would follow his lead and obey his command, and yet, subtly, strangely, his commands would be steered toward her views; persuasion and diplomacy, followed, where those means failed, by swift, decisive action.

Teyla helped him to filter and order his thoughts. From his barest few harshly forced-out words, she could extrapolate John’s feelings and give them a voice. What would she say now? She’d acknowledge, but dismiss his concerns regarding their immediate survival, knowing that John would do all that was needed, all that was possible, and occasionally a few things which didn’t seem possible, to get his little team to safety. And then she would wait, gazing directly at him with those soft but penetrating eyes which charmed forth his hidden thoughts, one grinding word at a time, and she would tell him the truth of his heart, unpalatable or otherwise. And she never told him ‘You must do this or that,’ or rarely and only when he was being really stupid. But usually, once she’d spoken, he would know what to do. Or what not to do.

What would Teyla say now? That he loved Lara Kennet or was well on the way to loving her? No. Even Teyla wouldn’t say that truth aloud, because what would be the point? John had his duty – to get himself and Rodney back to Atlantis as soon as he could and to ensure the alliance with the Coalition didn’t fail because of their disappearance. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else could matter.

His muscles stretched to some semblance of working order, John climbed unsteadily to his feet. Pink light began to seep through the trees, sparkling on the fresh snowfall and casting blue shadows toward the head of the valley. 

John clapped his gloved hands free of snow and brushed down the legs of his jeans. Then, moving slowly, he built up the fire, fetched water from the river and set it on to heat. He led the grennets to the river and let them drink while he jogged heavily in place, flapping his arms to further invigorate his body by waking up his sluggish circulation. A grennet slowly turned its head toward him, its ears drooping sleepily. It opened its mouth and mooed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s laughing at you.” Greyla joined him on the river bank. She jogged and flapped her arms. “Are you being a bird?”

“Yes,” he said. “Flying’s cool.”

She giggled again.

There was very little laughter that day as the trail climbed up the far side of Swaddle’s Dip, winding about between abandoned mine-workings, and then rising further in a series of mounting ridges, toward the high peak of Coan Mountain. Around mid-morning it began to snow. Greyla wanted to get down and play but they couldn’t stop. Rodney was a miserable, shivering heap slumped over the back of his grennet, ignoring the flakes of snow that settled on the brim of his hat.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50910173793/in/dateposted-public/)

They continued and the snow fell more thickly so that the grennets shuffled through an increasing layer and John was worried that they would climb so high that the trail would be impassable. It turned to follow the curve of the mountain before that happened and, though the snow continued to fall, it wasn’t so deep that the grennet’s thick legs couldn’t push their way through.

The sun was low on the hills when they reached the head of Weston Valley. They paused for a moment, gazing down the long, wide gap and, in the distance, John could see where the land flattened out between the ridges.

“That’s ranching country down there,” said Morla.

“I live on a ranch.” Greyla fidgeted in the saddle. “Are we nearly there? Is that home down there?”

“It’ll be a while yet,” Morla said. Her eyes were shadowed and her lips pinched with cold.

“You want me to take her for a bit?” John offered.

Morla shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll manage.”

Rodney sighed and John thought he was about to speak, but realised his friend was listing to one side, his head lolling slackly. John drove his grennet quickly up alongside and held him in place. “McKay!”

“Huh? What? Sheppard?”

“Is he alright?” Morla had ridden to the other side of Rodney’s mount.

“I don’t think he can go much further,” John said.

“Yes. Yes, I can.” Rodney wincingly righted himself in the saddle, quick puffs of his hot breath curling out into the cold air. “I’m alright.”

John wanted him to gripe and complain, to demand and insult. But Rodney just set his chin and folded his free arm around his waist. His face was grey but for the spots of fever-bright heat on his cheeks.

“Let’s go,” said John. The trail was wide enough for two abreast and John rode alongside Rodney and kept a careful watch on him.

John’s own hurts were beginning to trouble him, each sideways twist with the swaying gait of his mount pulling at the muscles in his side. They felt like frayed ropes that were slowly parting, their threads unravelling, so that eventually they’d give and snap and he’d be no use to anyone, least of all Rodney. He had a goal, a team to protect, a job to do; he’d get there, he’d get them all there.

A while later, Greyla began to recognise her surroundings, even in the dimming light as the sun fell below the mountain at their backs. “That there’s where we had a picnic one time!” she said. “It was hot and Plonzo saw a snake and Daddy shot it!”

John was glad to hear Rodney mutter something about a ‘fun family day out’, but his heart sank when he looked at his friend’s face and saw that his eyes were closed and his skin had the waxy look of serious illness.

The sun sank and Greyla’s mood changed to tearful exhaustion. She drowsed in Morla’s arms, but woke continually and cried for her mother and her home.

“Morla, hold up.” John brought his grennet forward to see the young woman struggling to stop the tired, fractious child from falling out of the saddle. “I’ll take her for a bit.”

“John, no, I can see you’re tired and hurting. You can’t hide it.”

“Give her to me. You can wrap a blanket round both of us and she can be my hot water bottle, so, you know, this is me being kinda selfish, really.”

Morla laughed, though her laughter held a trembling edge of exhaustion. The transfer was accomplished, Greyla scrambling across and wedging herself in before John, facing him. She wrapped her arms around him and Morla wrapped a blanket around her and tied it around John’s back.

“There. Now you can’t fall, even if you sleep,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m stuck with you now,” John said.

Greyla giggled drowsily.

They moved forward, slowly, the grennets tired too, dragging their hooves in the snow, which, thankfully was shallow on the trail, but swept up into drifts against the side of the valley. As the valley broadened, the trail moved away from the steep side and led them down and along a river bank. The sky was clear and, even though it was full dark, the starlight and the dusting of snow on the ground helped show their way. Greyla muttered in her sleep. Rodney rolled slackly from side to side in his saddle, John on one side, Morla on the other to catch him if he fell, although even John felt Greyla’s soft, steady breathing pulling him into a half-doze.

They wound between trees, taller here with the richer lowland earth and sheltering arms of the ridges either side. Then they were out in the open and a high, dark fence was before them. John’s grennet pulled up and he jerked fully awake, suddenly aware of the stark, manmade structure and the tearing ache in his side which seemed to shoot up to his shoulder and down through his hip.

Then, his startled, battered senses were assaulted from all sides by thundering hooves, sharp, demanding cries and searing bright lights. The threatening click of ratcheting firearms sent John’s heart rate rocketing and he gripped the reins hard in one hand and pulled Greyla close with the other, to stop himself reaching for a weapon.

They were shouting again, and again. “Get off your grennets! Down on the ground! Now! Do it, now!”

Morla slid off and slumped to the ground as her exhausted body gave out. A man was yelling in Rodney’s face and someone grabbed John’s shoulder and pulled. The blanket slipped down. Greyla’s eyes were wide and fearful and her small body shook.

“Get down! Now!”

The accusing muzzle of a gun pointed in John’s face.

“Tylo?” The small, soft voice halted the shouting and the weapon fell.

“Miss Greyla?”

“Tylo, it’s me, I’m home.”

“Miss Greyla, how…? Who are these people?” The man’s voice held a hard edge of suspicion.

Greyla, fully awake now, sat up and wriggled herself free of the blanket. “These’re my friends, Tylo Halken! You be nice to them! They brought me home!” Her indignant voice dissolved once more into that of a tired child. “They brought me home.”

oOo

He was on Atlantis and there was Jennifer; but it was too hot so that she melted and reformed into Sam Carter, which was all wrong, because he wasn’t supposed to dream about Sam and Jennifer would be angry. Maybe that was why she melted. He ran away from Sam, but she followed and she had a P-90 and, as he flew through the halls of the Ancient city, great splinters of the walls blasted away and cut into his arm and his back and why hadn’t Zelenka fixed the heating?

It was cold and hot and cold again and he couldn’t find John, not even when he called out for him again and again. Jennifer didn’t want him to call for John, she wanted him to call out for her, but he’d done it anyway and John had been in his room but now he wasn’t and Jennifer would catch him and take him back to the infirmary. Then Morla took his hand and said it was okay and that he was still Rodney and John would always be on the pier, waiting for him.

Then there were whispers and strange faces and everything hurt, but there was always John or Morla in the blinding, swirling snow; snow on snow on snow, splashed with the bright red of morla-berries, and he whirled down into darkness broken by more strange voices and strange faces until at last they left him alone and he sank further down into sleep.

Then there was bright light behind his eyelids and his thoughts were simple, but correctly ordered, as the thoughts of Dr Rodney McKay ought to be. He was warm; not hot, but comfortably warm and there was a faint floral scent in the air, when he had been cold and he was sure there’d been snow.

“Is it summer?”

“What? Huh?”

Rodney opened his heavy eyelids and squinted against the shock of white light. A shape resolved itself into a blue-upholstered couch with a long, sagging heap of tan and white fabric lying half hanging off it. He blinked again. The fabric was John.

“It’s warm; is it summer?”

Something slid out from under John’s shirt and landed with a crunch on the floor. He reached down, stiffly, picked it up and scrunched it in his hands; an ice pack.

“No,” he said. “Central heating.”

Rodney tried to express non-verbally his confusion and general dissatisfaction with this response, as well as a demand for more data, but gave it up, both his mind and facial features refusing to cooperate. “What?”

John stood up, tugging down the front of his shirt, running a hand through his hair and grimacing. He was clean-shaven; generally clean, in fact, but appropriately Sheppard-like in his rumpledness. “This place. It’s heated; like, some kind of under-floor, Earth-modern stuff. And,” he moved beyond Rodney’s field of vision and produced a reverberant banging, “these are double, maybe triple-glazed.”

Rodney craned his neck back slightly, with, he thought, a heroic effort of concentration. John stood at a large window which was draped with heavy brocade curtains. The white light reflected on his face was familiar from many a long, Canadian winter. “Is it snowing?”

“It stopped a while ago.”

“Hmm.”

John turned round and scrutinised him closely. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not,” said Rodney, succinctly.

The black eyebrows raised.

“Not feeling much of anything,” Rodney clarified. “Am I floating?”

John smiled. “No. Gravity’s doing its usual thing.”

“Good to know.”

Rodney considered the effects of gravity on his body briefly, puzzling over the fact that while he was experiencing a certain measure of ‘floatiness’, he also felt remarkably heavy. He considered trying to alter his position, lying on his left side, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort and he’d let gravity play its little tricks for a while. He was going to share these thoughts with John, but his mouth was hijacked by different thoughts. “What the hell are you wearing and would you like a medallion to go with that?”

John looked down at himself. He had on an unrealistically white shirt and tan pants. The shirt was open to mid-chest, revealing an expanse of trademark Sheppard hairiness. “Huh, yeah, it’s kinda Buck Rogers, isn’t it? The buttons only come up to there.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to play up to that reference.”

John’s eyebrows raised in question. “Huh?”

“Twiki.”

“Biddi-biddi-biddi,” said John, obediently.

Rodney continued to scrutinise the revealing apparel. “It’s also very white. There’s no way you’re going to keep that clean. I mean, I assume that’s why you hardly ever wear colours, even when you’re out of uniform. All that spilling food and fighting.”

John looked faintly offended, then grinned.

“What are you grinning for?”

“Cause you made my hand itch.”

Rodney huffed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I wanted to slap you upside the head.” He swiped his hand in the air. “Which means ‘Rodney McKay is back in the game.’”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose so. How long was I, er… benched?”

John rubbed his neck, crunching the ice pack in his other hand. “Coupla days. I kinda lost track myself.”

“Are you okay? What’s with the…?” Rodney wiggled his eyebrows in no particular direction, but his friend seemed to understand.

John held up the ice pack. “This? Uh, I strained a few muscles, you know with all the falling and climbing and then being tied up and riding for ages and all that kinda stuff.”

“Oh. Yes.” Rodney’s eyes were heavy, but his mind wanted more input. “Are we safe here? Where’s Morla? This is Greyla’s place, right? What are her parents like? And where’s Morla? Did I already ask that?”

“Morla’s gone to bed. She was here a while ago. And we’re pretty safe, I guess.”

“What? What are you not saying?” Rodney’s throat tightened and he felt sweat prickle on his brow.

John sat down on the end of the bed. “Cool it, Rodney, it’s okay. We’re safe. They’ve looked after us, had a doctor here, all that kind of thing. And, you know, hot showers, clean clothes, sleep, food, more sleep, more food. Hey, there’s even a pool. An honest-to-God swimming pool, down in the basement.”

“Really? What level of technology are we looking at?”

John shrugged. “A mix; some roughly present day Earth, some more advanced - Wraith-tech, maybe. Some of it’s like we’ve already seen. Late nineteenth, early twentieth century.”

“And Greyla’s Mom and Dad?”

John rubbed his neck, accompanied by that particular grimace which meant he was being evasive. “Yeah, I haven’t met them yet. Well, apart from when we arrived, and it was dark and I was pretty beat.”

“That’s a bit… weird, isn’t it?”

“Mmm.”

“Sheppard? What aren’t you telling me?”

And again with the neck massage and the twisty lips. “Uh, yeah, well, I haven’t tried to leave, so I don’t know, but…”

“What?”

“I get the impression they wouldn’t let me.”

“We’re prisoners?”

John shrugged. “It’s better than that cell, back in Gulderren.”

“Great. A gilded cage.”

oOo

Rodney had fallen asleep before John could tell him about the sauna and the steam room as well as the gym that his sore muscles wouldn’t allow him to use yet, but Rodney probably wouldn’t have been interested in those anyway, other than to question the source of their power and the origins of the technology they utilised. He would have been interested in the games room, however, with its various consoles and interfaces, and he would also have been interested in the fact that John could go nowhere without at least one large, deliberately intimidating minder in attendance.

Not that he was actually intimidated, but it was annoying nonetheless. The black-suited man was waiting for John outside Rodney’s room and followed him as he strolled down the carpeted hall to check on Morla. The ranch house was like an old-fashioned country hotel, or perhaps a European stately home. Its walls were wood-panelled, the wood painted predominantly in white or pale colours and draped here and there with tapestries in muted shades. There were two storeys above ground as well as a basement, but John had been confined to a limited area of the house, certain doors having forbidding guards stationed in front of them, legs planted wide, arms folded. John hadn’t challenged them, even though, when the time came, he might have to.

As he’d told Rodney, he hadn’t met Greyla’s parents, apart from a brief glimpse as the little girl was whisked out of his arms as soon as they’d entered the inner compound of the ranch buildings, and he and Morla and the unconscious Rodney were whisked in the opposite direction. He’d let it all happen, being in desperate need of medical help for Rodney and being in far too much pain himself to protest. And they had been treated well. Having attended first to Rodney, a doctor had checked him over and, although John had feared much worse, pronounced that his muscles were only badly strained and that he needed to rest, take painkillers and apply ice packs regularly. He’d slept in a soft bed, eaten luxurious food, been given clean clothes; every comfort had been attended to.

But he’d also been watched and confined. His weapons had been taken and he had no idea what had happened to their gear; no idea what had happened to their bedrolls, rolled and bound together in tight packages to hide the treasure that lay within. They were under house arrest and also, presumably, under suspicion. He’d asked to see Greyla but had been stone-walled.

Morla was not in her room. John stood on the landing, irresolute. His minder stared blankly ahead. John had tried talking to the man, and the other expressionless rent-a-thugs that watched him; they never responded and he concluded they’d been given orders not to interact.

A gilded cage was comfortable, but boring, John decided. He’d go and look for Morla. She might be in the games room, or reading in one of the luxurious drawing rooms. He padded silently down the thickly-carpeted stairs, pausing to admire the view out of the window on the half-landing. Snow covered the formal gardens close to the house, topping the carefully trimmed bushes with white hats, smoothing the lawns like a perfectly frosted cake. Further away, the corrals were pure white squares, cut across by black streaks of fencing. In the distance, Coan Mountain was wreathed in thick cloud. They could’ve been stuck up there, John thought. Another few hours, any small delay and he and Rodney, Morla and little Greyla wouldn’t have made it through the snow. John’s thoughts began to stray toward other travellers who might be out there still; he turned away from the window.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, John was about to check one of the sitting rooms, when he caught a glimpse of a small face. He kept his eyes fixed ahead and paused as if he couldn’t decide which way to go. The face, reflected in a mirror, had been Greyla’s, tucked into the shadows beneath the staircase. How could he get away from his minder to talk to her?

“I wonder if little grennets can swim,” said John, conversationally. “And if they did, would they wear swimsuits. They’d take a while getting changed, I guess, because their hooves…” He waved his clenched fists to indicate a grennet’s lack of fingers, let alone opposable thumbs, and enjoyed the look of confusion and thinly-veiled contempt in his minder’s face. In the mirror, a small shadow slipped from beneath the staircase and disappeared. “Well,” said John. “Only one way to find out.” He grinned annoyingly at the man and headed for the basement.

Thankfully, his minder always waited outside the changing area. John was used to military locker rooms and it made no difference to him to strip off if everyone else was doing the same thing; it would have been weird to be watched, though. He gifted his minder with another smirk and pushed open the swing door. It was warm inside, even warmer than the rest of the house. There were shining wooden benches, hooks and shelves for clothing and possessions, drawers full of towels and swimsuits and trunks of all descriptions, and a large wicker hamper to throw the used ones into. 

The hamper giggled.

John lifted the lid and Greyla looked up at him. He kept his voice low. “You want me to lift you out?”

She shook her head. “No. I can get out. But I’m staying in, just in case.”

“Okay.”

“They wouldn’t let me see you.”

“No.”

“I wanted to. I wanted you and Buzz and Morla. Sometimes Buzz is Rodney and you’re Neil and John, and Mom and Dad wanted to know why and I want to know why.”

“Uh, well, um. Don’t you have any other names?”

“Angreylana Lorenette Roselia Hefferen.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Oh. Where’s Morla? And Buzz?”

“Morla’s around somewhere. Rodney’s still in bed.”

“He’s sick, isn’t he? Is he… Is he going to die? Like those people?”

“No, he’s not going to die.” John crouched down on the floor. “He was sick but he’s getting better now. Do you mean the people back at the waystation?”

She nodded. “Auntie Bea. Except she wasn’t my auntie. And the man and the old man. They died. Didn’t they?”

“Yeah. They did.”

“Oh.” She sank down into the basket. “That’s sad.”

“Yeah, it’s always sad. Are you okay?”

“I had some bad dreams.”

“I have those sometimes.”

“Do you?” Greyla’s face appeared over the top of the basket once more.

“Sure. Everyone gets those. It’s how you deal with stuff.”

“Oh.”

“Greyla, I’d really like to talk to your Mom and Dad. Do you think you could ask them?”

“They’ll know I talked to you.”

“Will you get in trouble?”

“No. I can do anything and they don’t tell me off.” She grinned. “Last night, I had my dessert and then I said I wish I could have some more and they gave me _more_. And then I said it again and they gave me more. I was nearly sick!” she said, gleefully.

“Cool,” said John.

“So, I’ll tell them to invite you for dinner and then they’ll see you’re nice and maybe you’ll get lots of dessert.”

The swing door moved. 

“Hey, hurry up in there.”

Greyla huddled down in the basket. John winked down at her and replaced the lid. He hurriedly threw off his clothes, snatched some swim trunks from a drawer and pulled them on, realising too late that they were the clinging Speedo type rather than the baggy shorts he preferred.

The door opened fully. “Get moving.”

John took a towel and strutted past the impatient goon, feigning total nonchalance at the minimalism of his attire.

He swam, carefully, using a tame version of breaststroke or sculling along on his back, but nevertheless luxuriating in the feeling of the warm water gliding over his body. Then he stood in the shallow end and experimentally stretched first one side, then the other. His muscles protested, but didn’t scream, which was a definite improvement.

An identical dark-suited man entered, spoke briefly to his minder, then left. John’s personal guard approached the side of the pool.

“Get out,” he said. “Boss wants to see you.”

oOo

John caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he was led through as yet undiscovered sections of the house. His hair, hurriedly rubbed dry with a towel, was sticking up like it’d been in a storm. He thought about flattening it down, but decided to leave it alone.

They arrived at a set of double doors, heavy with wooden mouldings painted a pale jade green. The minder knocked and, at a call from within, opened the door and ushered John inside.

“Thank you, Asten, you may go.”

The room was lined with shelves which were filled with books; Earth-type books, rows of variously shaped items which were possibly alien books, a few scrolls and also innumerable knick-knacks which might be ornaments or artifacts or anything, really. John thought they might interest Rodney. There was a large curving window looking out over a show-covered lawn and, before the window, a wide desk. A man of about John’s age sat behind the desk, regarding him with the same blue-grey eyes that had, a short while ago, watched him from the inside of a wicker basket. These eyes had a narrowed, wary look, however and they glanced sideways at a computer terminal before returning to John’s face.

“Mr Neil Armstrong.” He addressed John in a firm, direct tone. “Or is it Mr John Sheppard? Or perhaps the infamous outlaw Johnny Sundance? Or someone else entirely?”

John was tempted to claim to be the Easter Bunny, but thought that wouldn’t go down too well. “It’s Sheppard,” he said. “John Sheppard.”

“Very well, that will do for now, in the absence of any proof to the contrary.”

John said nothing. This could go either way. He was obviously a wealthy man, this Lorentik Hefferen and, in this world as in any other that John could think of, wealth meant power, even if he, too, was wearing a ridiculous Buck Rogers type shirt, of a sickly lavender shade.

“Please, sit.” Hefferen gestured toward a leather-upholstered chair.

John sat.

“You returned my daughter to me and for that you have my heartfelt thanks.”

John nodded acknowledgement. “You’re welcome.”

“And I’m sure that you will forgive any precautions I have taken when you understand that my daughter was taken from this very house.”

“I get the need for security.”

“So you will also understand that, naturally, I was keen to check into the background of my daughter’s rescuers.”

“I would’ve done the same.”

Hefferen gestured to the computer terminal. “I have here access to all the latest crime reports, figures and statistics as well as comprehensive census lists for each area of this district.”

“Of course you do.” Sarcasm was beginning to creep into John’s tone and he wasn’t sure if he could stop it. Or if he wanted to.

“So when I find I’m playing host to two outlaws notorious for the southern line train robbery, none other than Johnny Sundance and Butch McKay, as well as their female companion, late of Madam Frey’s establishment in Teller’s Gap… well this presents me with a dilemma.”

“Yeah, you see, these reports you mention probably aren’t accurate. I’m no outlaw and neither is my friend.”

“Really?” Lorentik Hefferen pushed back his chair slightly to open a drawer beneath the desk. He reached in with both hands and slowly lifted out a heavy object which he set before him on the shining wooden surface. Then he looked up and directed a raised eyebrow at John. “Perhaps you’d like to explain this?”

It was a gold bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rodney, John and Morla have found a safe haven, but will they be allowed to leave, or is it just out of the frying pan and into yet another fire?
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment, even if it’s just a word or two - let me know you’re out there!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, is Greyla’s father going to be friend or foe? Will John and Rodney be helped or hindered in their quest to return to Atlantis? Read on to find out!

The gold bar sat silently between them, dully lustrous, weighty with consequence.

“There were two of these hidden amongst your possessions.”

"Yeah, you see, there’s a good reason for that.”

“I’d be delighted to hear it.” Hefferen reached around the end of his desk and pressed a black button that was set into the woodwork.

John sprang to his feet and his eyes flew to the window, to the door behind him, to a large statue on a shelf.

"If you're planning to dash my brains out with a heavy object, I can recommend the picture of my wife and daughter as the nearest to hand. The frame is made of polished stone.” Hefferen gestured to an ornate frame that stood toward the front of his desk.

John released the sudden tension in his body and let the adrenaline seep away; whatever was going on in this man’s head, it was not the obvious hasty dispatch to the nearest Agent.

Hefferen smiled. "I merely rang the bell to summon refreshments. But, I confess, I was hoping that your response might confirm a suspicion. Do you hold a high rank? You have the look of one used to command."

“A high rank?”

“Come now, do not be obtuse, _Mr_ Sheppard. As you entered you assessed the exits, the fingers of your right hand constantly curl, as if round a trigger, and your reaction to my ringing for my servant was highly reminiscent of a vrax caught in a trap. You would fight your way out at the slightest provocation. Don’t bother to deny it.”

John said nothing. With this man, one small piece of information might easily lead to the inference of so much more.

“You should also recall that your friend spoke during his delirium. And that, although a lot of what he said was garbled and unintelligible to my servants, there were certain references reported to me that told me you are no common outlaws. Tell me your rank.”

The battleground shifted under John’s feet. What did this man know or guess? He shrugged, unable to resist an air of insolence. “Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. Sit down, please.”

John sank into his chair once more. He slouched down into the seat and crossed one leg over the other. Hefferen smiled slightly.

A female servant entered and placed a tray on the desk. It held a tall, spouted pot and a plate of small cakes. She poured a cup of latcha for John and passed it to him.

“Thank you, Meriel, we can manage.”

Meriel bobbed a curtsey and departed.

Hefferen passed the plate of cakes to John. He took one.

“My daughter tells me that you’re ‘nice’ and that I should trust you. You and your friends.”

“Smart kid.” John took a bite of his cake. It tasted of almonds.

“But trust needs to be built.”

“We brought her home.”

“You did. But it’s possible you expected a reward for doing so.”

“We didn’t need a reward. We had those.” John nodded at the gold bar.

“Indeed. But a bar of gold is not an easy thing to dispose of and you had little negotiable currency in your belongings.”

“It might be little to you. We thought we were doing okay.”

Hefferen took a sip of his latcha and replaced it carefully on its saucer. “I have a fancy to take my daughter’s advice and trust you,” he said. “I think it’s possible you need a lot more help than the hospitality and sanctuary of my home. And I think it’s also possible that you might be of service to me.”

“How so?”

“Ah, well, you see the trust that Greyla’s so keen to extend will have to be earned by a mutual exchange of information. One that you, I must insist, will begin.”

“What do you want to know?”

Hefferen pushed his cup away and sat back in his chair, linking his fingers over his stomach, his gaze drifting away from John to follow the line of the book-filled shelves. “Well, now, it may be that I am too influenced by my daughter, because I find myself wanting to indulge in a small guessing-game first.” His eyes narrowed. “You are clearly not of this world. We have no military apart from the Gate complex guard up in the City. The Wraith ensure that military force is not needed to keep the populace in line.”

John couldn’t work out whether this was spoken with approval or bitterness. He’d have to tread extremely carefully.

Hefferen continued. “A high military rank argues for a relatively advanced society, but Sateda is long gone and Lieutenant Colonel is not a rank that they used. I have not heard that the Genii use such a rank either, and besides, you have not their air of deceit or ruthlessness, although I sense that you are capable of both qualities. You are not here by choice, that is certain. It is also obvious that you are not allies of the Wraith. This leads me to thoughts of the recently-established Coalition of Planets and from there it is but a short, rather obvious hop to the City of the Ancients. You are from Atlantis.”

oOo

Rodney was losing track of all of the servants that were attending to his needs. A woman had shown the doctor into his room, who had greeted Rodney as if he was supposed to remember the guy, and then proceeded with all the usual voodoo nonsense which appeared to amount to the fact that he was on the mend. He’d already known that.

Another member of staff came in with some soup and a hot drink, and why, when you’d been ill, was it intergalactically assumed that you could only consume liquids, when what you really wanted was a good plateful of something solid with meat and big chunks of potato or whatever root vegetable was available?

Then, just when he was getting annoyed with the weight of the tray on his lap and had spilled enough soup down his front to make him worried that John or Morla would come in and laugh at him (although, would Morla laugh?), another woman he hadn’t seen before came in and took the tray. And yet another, a man, thank God, helped him to the bathroom and to get changed out of the soup-splattered garments and washed and into clean clothes.

Perhaps it was a deliberate strategy, Rodney thought, as he sank gratefully into the soft mattress once more; so that he didn’t bond with any of them and find out the dark secrets of the household, whatever they were. Probably a mad ex-wife locked in an attic, or a monster in the basement or just really poor energy efficiency, which, he felt would be far more reprehensible than either of the former.

The door opened and he groaned in anticipation of another unfamiliar face.

“Rodney? Are you alright? Do you want me to get someone?” It was Morla.

“No! Please, no. I’m fine. Happy to see you, in fact. Why haven’t I seen you before? Where have you been all this time?”

“I was here. You just don’t remember.” She flopped down on the couch, reclining on the thick cushioning. “You look better. Much better.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50924851833/in/dateposted-public/)

“I am. I think. I suppose that doctor must have known what he was doing.” Morla was wearing some kind of elaborate outfit. Should he say something about it? Women seemed to expect that kind of thing, if they were wearing anything out of the ordinary or even if they weren’t. Although maybe he shouldn’t say anything because Jennifer might not like it. Jennifer wasn’t here, of course, but did that make it even worse that he should be trying to think what to say to an attractive woman when Jennifer was so far away?

And now he’d thought of Morla as attractive, so that _was_ even worse. Although _he_ probably wasn’t in the least bit attractive to _her_ , so it wouldn’t make any difference what he thought, added to the fact that he was much older than her and he was with Jennifer. But Morla was certainly no younger than Jennifer. Rodney’s head started to hurt again. John’s voice was in his ears: ‘Just say any old thing!’ “Er… You look very, er… shiny.”

Morla smoothed down the rich blue satiny fabric of her dress and shook out the lace at her sleeves. “Hmm… It’s very pretty, but it’s not really me.” She tugged impatiently at the bow at her waist and kicked her legs in the air; the fabric covered her feet. “You couldn’t run in it, and you never know when you’ll need to run.”

“Yes,” agreed Rodney, reflecting that he tended to judge clothes on their ease of movement for running and fighting purposes, imperviousness to burns and stains and, obviously, the distribution of pockets for convenient withdrawal of snacks.

“Will we need to?” she asked.

“What, run?”

Morla nodded.

“As in, are we prisoners and will we have to effect a daring escape?” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Probably.” Rodney breathed deeply and his arm twinged. There was a rustle of fabric, a thud and a curse. He opened his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you were going to sleep.”

“Hum, yes, well, you can add ‘stealthy tip-toeing’ to the list of things you can’t do in that dress. I’m not sleeping, anyway.”

Morla hitched up her trailing skirts, wrapped them round one arm and strode to the window, swinging her legs and revealing long white, frilly underwear, which was interesting and in some way alarming.

“What?”

“I can see your er… What do you call those things?”

“Drawers. Knickers. Unmentionables.” She held her skirts up to her waist. “You like ‘em?”

Rodney gulped. “Um…” The underwear’s bagginess made it less revealing even than a Marine’s uniform, except for Morla’s slim calves, and they were encased in thick stockings. Nevertheless, the whiteness and the frills gave her legs an aura of forbidden fruit and he recalled that in Victorian society sometimes even table legs were covered, to prevent men’s ardour getting the better of them. He wondered how many uncovered table legs had been brutally ravished and how exactly Victorian men had gone about that uncomfortable task, and then he remembered that that was a myth anyway and perhaps Victorian men weren’t so sexually frustrated as all that.

“Rodney?” Morla let her skirts fall. “Are you alright?” She placed a cool hand on his forehead.

“No. Yes. Maybe.” He closed his eyes. The hand remained on his forehead and he should tell her to move it. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” 

Her hand retreated and he wanted to tell her to put it back. “For being pathetic. I should be up and figuring out a way of getting us out of here. I could cut the power to the lights, or lock all the doors, while leaving a clear route for us to escape. Are the door locks powered?”

“No, I don’t think so. Rodney -”

“Oh. Bang goes that plan, then. But I’ll come up with something else! Just give me a minute. A few minutes. But don't ask me how many, because that's incredibly annoying!"

“Rodney, you’re not pathetic and you don’t have to come up with anything.”

His eyes flew open again and he winced at the white snow-reflected light. “Yes, yes I do, because that’s who I am, the guy who uses science and math to get my team out of trouble, or to get the whole city out of trouble, or maybe the world or the galaxy or -”

“No. No, you’re not.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I do!”

“I’m sure it is, but that’s not who you are.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. See, I haven’t known Rodney McKay for very long, and for some of that time he’s been a respectable man called Buzz Aldrin, and for a while he was the desperate outlaw, Butch Mckay. But so far, I’ve learned that you’re… let me see... “ She held up a hand and checked off points on her fingers. “You’re easily embarrassed, although you’re not afraid to speak your mind, not to anyone. You’re sometimes grumpy and impatient.”

Rodney’s chin flew up into defensive mode, but Morla was smiling.

She continued, “You’re practical and sometimes you’re funny; you’re kind and helpful when it really matters; you’ve seen some bad things and sometimes you get scared, but you’re brave - you’ll protect and defend the honour and the lives of people you barely know.” 

She made him sound like a pretty cool guy. He’d never been a cool guy. That was Sheppard.

Morla laughed. “And you like food and don’t much care what it is as long as there’s plenty.”

“Citrus,” he said. “I can’t eat citrus.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“There’s probably a different word for it here.”

“We can find out. In the library. There’s books on everything.”

“Oh. And it’s not just that I like food. I get low blood sugar if I don’t eat regularly.” 

“I’ll remember that.” She placed her hand on his forehead again and combed her fingers back through his hair. “You’re tired. Close your eyes.”

Rodney let his heavy eyelids droop.

“She’s a lucky woman, your Jennifer.”

Rodney made a questioning noise, but couldn’t raise the energy to make actual words.

“John told me,” said Morla. “She sounds nice. A doctor. Clever, like you.”

“Hmm.” Rodney wasn’t sure whether he was smugly agreeing or being modest.

“I’ll leave you to sleep.”

Morla must have hitched her skirts up to her waist again, because there were no more thuds or inventive unfamiliar curses. Rodney drifted away.

oOo

“Have I guessed correctly?”

John said nothing. He would say nothing under torture, so why should he freely give information to this stranger?

“I see that I will have to reveal a little more of my intentions, though I risk much in doing so; it is possible, even now, that you are a spy, sent by my political rivals.” 

Hefferen abandoned his lounging pose and poured himself another cup of latcha, gesturing with the pot toward John’s cup. John shook his head.

“As you know, this world is controlled by the Wraith, sometimes directly, but in the main via a small number of ruling families, of which the Hefferens are one.” He sipped his latcha and then continued. “There are certain elements on the Council of Clans, as we call it, that are perfectly satisfied with this arrangement; they have the power to control society as well as protection for themselves and their families. There are other factions on the Council, however, that see the need for change. You have been out in this world, Colonel, out amongst its people; I am certain that you have witnessed many injustices and inequalities, many wrongs that should be righted.”

“You could say that.”

Hefferen leant forward in his chair and, for the first time, John could see beyond the slick, sophisticated exterior, to the determination of the man below. “I see the need for change. I would right those many wrongs. But to do that, I, we, that is the dissenters on the Council, need help from an outside source. We cannot do this alone. We need the help of the Coalition. We need Atlantis.”

This man was wary of him, but had put his neck on the line, spreading his intentions out before John. The wariness worked both ways; this could still be a trap. But what would be the purpose of such a trap, on a world where minor infractions were answered by the scaffold?

“You want to ally with us against the Wraith.”

“We want allies, yes.”

John shifted in his seat and the leather creaked beneath him. He was growing stiff, but he wouldn’t show weakness, not at this point when he was still so unsure of this potential ally. He and Rodney and Morla were isolated in this man’s power, in his territory; his territory, which displayed luxury so far beyond the reach of the average citizen as to be unimaginable. “Why do you need help? Why haven’t you done anything before?”

“An attempt was made. It was before my time, and my family was not involved. If they had been, I would not be here now.” He stood up and turned his back on John, gazing out at the snow-covered grounds. The sky was grey and a few flakes drifted down. “The rebellion was rapidly quelled and those clans convicted of treason were culled; a ceremonial culling, in Teksa’corani. 

In the centre of the city, there is a heavily-guarded complex, a citadel, into which the general public is not permitted except on occasions of state. The Ring of the Ancestors stands within, on a large expanse of snow-white marble. There, as an example to others, the most notorious criminals are culled, the reapers flying straight through the Ring to sweep the platform clean. It is also there that, in the rare event of any of the ruling families falling from grace, the entire clan - men, women and children - are devoured by the culling beams. That is what happened to those that last challenged the rule of the Wraith over this world.” He turned away from the window. “So, you see what I risk in revealing to you my intentions. Not just my own life, but my wife’s, my child’s and all of the others of my family down to the last distant connection.”

The man seemed genuine. “You want help from Atlantis, that’s fine,” said John. “But we’re not exactly in a position to negotiate. We’re stuck here, with no way of getting in touch.”

“What if I was to help you return to your City?”

“Could you do that? Can you get us through the Gate? Or on a ship?”

Hefferen grimaced and lowered himself into his seat. “It would be difficult,” he said slowly. “But there is a possible way. It is not generally known, but a certain proportion of criminals are sent through the Gate as slaves for the Wraith.”

“Sounds like fun,” said John, apprehension crawling over his skin.

“It is a way off the planet. And, as far as I am aware, the only way.”

“Okay, well, maybe we can come up with something better.”

“You must take care.”

“Yeah, I think it’s probably impossible to take care when you’re dealing with the Wraith.”

“You misunderstand. Myself and my wife employ many people from the surrounding area, more than we need and at a good wage, in an attempt to redress some of the inequalities of our society.”

“I’d noticed a lot of different faces.”

“Then you will understand what I mean when I tell you to take care. You must do your best to appear no more than my daughter’s rescuers, gratefully receiving my hospitality as your reward; because it is very possible, even likely, that some of my servants are spies."

oOo

“Slaves? Oh, that’s going to end well. That sounds like a fantastic plan. Send us through the Gate in a party of slaves and then expect us to be able to escape. In what way would we be better off as slaves of the Wraith than we are here?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” John stretched out his arms along the length of the couch and let his head fall back.

“And? His response?”

John shrugged.

“Great. Just great. We finally meet someone who might be in with a chance of getting us off this rock and the best he can come up with is to sell us into slavery.”

“I don’t think there’s any selling involved.”

“That makes it even worse. He’d just give us to the Wraith. Perhaps you could explain to me how exactly that makes this Hefferen guy any different from someone who isn’t trying to help us? He might just as well call the Agents right now and save us all a lot of time and suffering. And speaking of time and suffering, if I ever get my hands on that Spy Kid teen-Wraith, I’ll have more than a few choice words to say. What was his expectation of our chances of getting off this planet? ‘Snowball’s chance in hell - that’ll do’?” Rodney jerked the blankets up to his chin and turned away, which put pressure on his half-healed arm. “Ow. Dammit.”

“Here, let me.” Morla, who had been sitting on the end of the bed, arranged Rodney’s pillows to make him more comfortable.

“We have to try something, McKay, and I know it’s not the best idea, but -”

“Shut up.”

“Rodney, come on -”

“No, shut up, I’m thinking.” Rodney closed his eyes and cudgelled his convalescing brain into action. “Number of ways off the planet, not counting the extremely unlikely scenario of being rescued: two, those being, on a ship or through the Gate. Ships: darts. Can we steal one?”

“It doesn’t sound like they ever land,” said John.

“You mean the reapers? I’ve never heard of one landing, even in the City,” said Morla.

“Okay, fine, so it’s the Gate or nothing. Likelihood of access to the Gate: nil, unless you’re bound for a short life of no doubt cruel slavery.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“So, we need to find a way of getting ourselves sent through the Gate, but make sure we don’t go where they want us.”

“I don’t think they’ll let you play with the DHD, Rodney.”

“No.” Rodney rubbed his unshaven jaw. “No. But.”

“But?”

“That’s the only place I can see where there might be some wiggle-room in the whole ‘sold into slavery’ scenario.”

“Wiggle-room?”

“Hmm. For example, it’s possible to cross-wire the chevrons, so that the address dialled actually sends you to a different place altogether.”

“You’d need access to the DHD.”

“Well, yes, but that depends on the set-up, doesn’t it? In Atlantis, we have the control level and so there’s all kinds of variations on the way Gate-function can be messed up, either intentionally or through sheer, gross ineptitude. If they have anything like that, then there are bound to be possibilities for a genius such as myself to indulge in a little hacking.”

“That’s a big if, Rodney. But it’s nice to hear that your ego’s on the mend.”

“There was never anything wrong with my ego, it was just damped down for a while by extreme pain and sickness.” Rodney’s mind ran on, pointing out to him all the errors and possibilities in his plan. “Look, you’re missing the point. What we need now is more information about the location of the Gate. A central complex, Hefferen said; has that been built up round the Gate by the locals? The Wraith? What are we talking about here, a temple with a lot of incense-burning and chanting primitives, or something more useful, like an actual Ancient outpost with systems that I can infiltrate?”

“Morla?” John looked at their companion. “Do you know anything about Teksa’corani? What the citadel might be like?”

Morla jumped and blushed. "Oh, er, sorry, you were asking about the city?"

"Yes, the city, come on, chop-chop!" Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently.

"Aw, your first finger snap." Sheppard was grinning like an idiot. He held out his hand and shook Morla's vigorously. "Congratulations."

“Er, thanks,” she said.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Oh, ha ha.”

“Give the girl a break! She’s not seen you in full-on Rodney McKay mode before. What’s the verdict, Morla?”

“Uh, I guess it’s a bit like when you jump into a creek. Kinda takes your breath away for a bit.”

“Yes, yes, very amusing. Now, back to the matter in hand? Teksa’corani?”

“Well, I’ve never been there,” she said. “There are plenty of stories, though. They say -” she leant forward, conspiratorially. “They say the streets are paved with gold!”

Rodney felt a face-palm was in order. “Oh God, don’t they always?”

Morla pouted and gave an offended snort.

“Yeah, let’s not argue about this, guys” said John. “We’ll see what we can find out from Hefferen, then we can come up with a plan of action.”

“Oh, is he coming to visit us in our thinly-disguised cells?”

“C’mon, Rodney, he’s treated us pretty well. You haven’t seen the games room yet.”

It was Rodney’s turn to snort but before he could embark on any kind of satisfying rant, John interrupted.

“Anyways, if you’re up to it, he’s invited us all to dinner tomorrow evening.”

“Dinner? Hmm.” Rodney considered his delicate convalescent state. “Out. Both of you. Now.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if I’m going to make the most of what I’m sure will be a sumptuous repast, I’ll need to build up my energy reserves.”

“Oh. Nighty-night, then, Rodney. Sleep tight. Shall I tuck you in?”

“I will. And no. Respectively. Draw the curtains before you leave.”

oOo

John was concerned that a formal dinner would be too much for his recently recovered friend. He hid his concern by baiting Rodney about his Buck Rogers style blue shirt and tight black pants, but Rodney didn’t rise to his efforts.

“I think it suits me,” he said. “And Jennifer would say the blue matches my eyes.”

“Your sweetheart’d say more than that if she saw those pants,” Morla giggled. She took Rodney’s free arm, his other resting in a black sling, and John could tell that she was discreetly steering Rodney and allowing him to lean on her. It crossed John’s mind that his friend seemed very relaxed in Morla’s presence, without that slight edge of panic that sometimes crept into his eyes and the slant that occasionally made his mouth more than usually crooked when he was with Jennifer.

They were led by a servant to the dining room where the family was waiting. Greyla took great delight in introducing her friends to her parents in a rapid and largely unintelligible rush of names and words, which her father stemmed with a laughingly upraised hand.

“Gently, Greyla. Don’t overwhelm our guests!”

“So we are guests now, are we? Rather than prisoners, I mean.”

“McKay.” There was an awkward moment and suddenly John wanted to be back out in the snow, battling against the elements, his physical strength tested to its limit, his survival dependent on his own resources, rather than feeling his way through the subtleties of this privileged family and their precarious political situation.

Morla continued to hold Rodney’s arm, her direct green eyes openly questioning. “I’d like to know where I stand too,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

John looked up from his contemplation of the patterned carpet.

Mrs Hefferen held out her hand. “I’m sorry that we have had to confine your movements. We really are most truly grateful to you for returning our daughter. And you are our guests.”

John took the offered hand and shook it. She smiled as she took Morla’s hand and then Rodney’s.

“Please, call me Rosenta,” she said. “And you must sit down, Dr McKay. You’re not fully recovered yet and we shouldn’t be keeping you standing.” She led him to a chair.

Greyla climbed up next to Rodney. “We should have dessert first!” she announced. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Buzz? ‘Cause what happens if you get to dessert and you can’t fit it in?”

“I like your thinking,” he approved.

John sat, and the whiteness of the cloth and the complexity of the table settings reminded him of his family home and all those stilted meals after his mother had died and it had just been himself, his father and Dave. His father would have sat to his right, at the head of the table, just where Lorentik Hefferen was sitting now. Which of these implements would John be expected to use first? Would he sink beneath the Hefferen’s contempt if he used the wrong one? Why was he even thinking about such things when they were stranded on a Wraith-controlled planet?

“I guess we’ll have to eat our vegetables first,” said Greyla, with grim stoicism.

John caught the glimmer of a mischievous grin on his host’s face, which would never have sprung from his father’s lips.

“Well, now, why don’t I just have the whole lot brought in at once and we can all make our choice?”

“Really?” Greyla bounced up and down in her chair.

“Lorentik Hefferen, you’re more of a child than Greyla is!”

John found himself grinning. Perhaps this family was less stilted than his own.

The meal was brought in, the dishes all crowded onto the table at once, and such was the unfamiliarity of the food that John had no idea which were entrees and which desserts. And in the atmosphere of casual geniality, if not developing chaos, he decided he didn’t care.

They ate and drank and Lorentik and Rosenta laughed; John found himself relaxing and laughing with them. Greyla and Rodney ate desserts with dedicated competitiveness. Morla looked younger, as if she could have been Greyla’s older sister. But how different had her life been from Greyla’s? How young had she been when she’d had to start earning her living? 

John noticed that Rodney had been silent for a while and had stopped eating. “Rodney? Are you okay?”

He could see a snappish answer being bitten back. Rodney was tired and probably in pain.

Rosenta pushed back her chair. “We’ll retire to the drawing room.”

They left the scant remains of the meal and were led across a wide hall by the main entrance and into a large, but cosy room, where there were soft seats and couches and a huge fireplace in which coals were gently glowing.

Greyla ran to the hearthrug, pulled out a box from beneath a nearby chair and tipped out a slew of wooden animals. John remembered the Satedan creature that had been in his pocket when they’d arrived on the planet; what had happened to it? And his mother’s bracelet. The old man had said he would keep it until the snow fell. Snow had fallen, here at least. Was his precious memento now sparkling on the wrist of someone’s wife?

He realised Rosenta was speaking to him. “It’s been too much for him. We should have waited a day.”

“Rodney?” He saw that his friend was lying full length on one of the couches. He appeared to be asleep. “No, he’ll be fine. We wanted to talk to you both, anyways.”

They sat. He was given a small glass of a rich ruby-red liqueur.

“We need to know more about the City, about how the Gate’s protected, how it’s controlled. McKay has a few ideas for our escape plan.”

“I can’t tell you much,” said Lorentik. “It’s difficult to get access, even for us.”

“Do you know how the Gate’s controlled? Is there a DHD? A .... a thing like a round control panel that sticks out of the ground like a mushroom? It’d be near the Gate.”

The husband and wife looked at each other. Rosenta spoke. “The Ring stands on a featureless platform,” she said. “There’s no ‘mushroom’.”

“Right, so where’s it controlled from?”

“There’s a building at one end of the platform; a broad, tower, octagonal in cross-section.” Lorentik rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “It houses the formal council chamber on the upper floors, but there are lower storeys, below the level of the Gate platform. The Wraith go down there, but won’t permit access to any of us, not even the Senior Council members. Not that I’ve ever heard, at least.”

“That sounds hopeful.” Rodney eased himself upright, blinking and pulling his sling back around his arm where it had slid off. “What can you tell us about the architecture of the place? When was it built? By the Wraith?”

“No. It is said that the tower has stood, along with the Ring, since the time of the Ancestors, but I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Well, that sounds even more hopeful," said Rodney. "Some kind of outpost?”

“Maybe.” John took a sip of his drink. It was rich and sweet and fruity. “Could the Wraith use the controls if it’s all Ancient tech, though? Wouldn’t they need the gene?”

“Not necessarily. Think about what we’ve done on Atlantis - interfaced our own technology with Ancient, so that anyone could use it. Although we had me, which is obviously an important factor if genius is needed. What we really need is a set of plans. With your gene, my genius and a set of plans, I might just be able to pull off one of my usual miraculous saves.”

“There may be plans,” said Lorentik doubtfully. “Possibly in the university archives. Study of our history isn’t encouraged.”

“I’m surprised anyone’s allowed to study anything,” said Rodney. “The Wraith don’t need their food educated. Can you get us a copy of the plans?”

“I will try. As an alumnus of the university I should be allowed access to its library.” His hand crept into his wife’s. “Though even such an innocuous request may be regarded with suspicion.”

“We must risk what we have, Lorentik.” Rosenta squeezed his hand. “We’ve agreed on this.”

He nodded. “We have.”

oOo

Rodney’s arm was aching. It felt wrong to let his head slide down onto one of the soft cushions, but nobody seemed to mind. Morla and John were playing with Greyla’s animals while the little girl giggled at their sound effects and voices. John’s vrax attacked Morla’s grennet and they fought. Rodney yawned.

“Time for bed, McKay.”

Rodney opened his mouth, only mildly interested in whether agreement or sharp denial would emerge. Then there were raised voices outside the room and a cold draft blew under the double doors. Lorentik rose from his seat. The doors flew open and into the room strode an Agent, flanked by two deputies, a flustered servant in their wake.

“I’m sorry, Mr Hefferen, Mrs Hefferen, they wouldn’t let me announce them.”

“That’s alright, Meriel. You can go.”

The servant backed out and closed the doors. Greyla jumped up and went to her mother, regarding the Agent’s mutilated face with wide, horrified eyes.

“Agent Wingrel. This is a hard night to be out. What can I do for you?”

“Hefferen,” the Agent acknowledged Lorentik with a sharp nod, but his eyes travelled slowly over Rodney, John and Morla.

John stood up. 

“These are your guests?”

“They are.”

“Who are they?” The Agent’s manner was abrupt, his voice hard.

John stepped forward but Lorentik gestured him back.

“They are my guests and, as such, neither I, nor they need to explain their presence.”

The Agent squared up to Lorentik, his hands tucking into his gun belt, parting the folds of his duster and revealing a Wraith hand-stunner. The deputies mirrored his actions. “Don’t try it with me, Hefferen. You know fine well that I have the right to check up on any new folks in my area.”

“You do not have the right to disturb my family, however. A discreet request during working hours would have sufficed to set your mind at rest.”

The Agent sneered, his crudely-cut spiracles gaping open. “You high-ups is all the same, with your pretty words and your ‘working hours’. Us Agents don’t stick with working hours. We’re always on the job.”

“How tiresome.”

“I want their names and their travel permits right now, Hefferen. I heard tell some low-lifes had brought Miss Greyla back and I guess this is them.”

“Ah, but you are labouring under a misapprehension, Agent.” Hefferen smiled, gently. “My daughter has indeed been returned, but those admittedly suspicious characters moved on almost immediately. These are merely business associates of mine.”

“Business associates?”

“Yes.” Lorentik gestured at John. “This is Mr Hayal Travven. And this is Mr Antiok Peel and his wife Ferina.” His sweeping hand took in Rodney and Morla. Morla looked at Rodney and smirked. “Mr Travven and Mr Peel are on their way from my mines in the south to my works in the north. They are going to investigate the reason for certain accounting discrepancies and inefficiencies in production.”

Rodney tried to look like an accountant. John’s glowering brows would have had potential fraudsters running for cover.

The Agent narrowed his eyes. “I’ll see their permits.”

“Of course.” Lorentik smiled pleasantly. “In the morning.”

“Now.”

They had permits, of course, forged by one of Ferdan’s men, in the names of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin and registered at the stage office in Teller’s Gap. They might have satisfied this Agent. Why had Hefferen made up new identities for them?

“As you wish. They are in my office safe. Please, come with me.” He ushered the men toward the door.

The Agent turned to one of his deputies. “Go with him, Brin. I’ll have a few words with Mr Travven and Mr Peel here.”

oOo

Lorentik had said there might be spies amongst his employees. Was that why the Agent had arrived? Had someone reported their presence? And if so, what had they said? The staff knew that they had arrived out of the blue, bringing Greyla home. And now Hefferen was trying to pass them off as some kind of mining administrators. Had he had more false papers made?

The Agent glared at John, but his eyes fastened on Rodney. “What happened to you?”

“An accident. On our journey,” said Rodney.

“What kind of accident?”

“My grennet slipped in the snow and I fell off. Happy?”

The Agent sneered and loomed closer, so that Rodney would have to crane his neck to look up at him. Rodney ignored him, his eyes tracking the leaping flames.

“Back off.”

The green-stained skin and scarred face turned toward John and looked him up and down with slow deliberation. “So you’re an accountant?” His lip curled.

John allowed a maddening smirk to emerge. “Yeah. That’s me. I’m all about the numbers.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

“How much did Hefferen’s southern mines make last year?”

What would be a convincing figure? John had no idea of the mines’ extent or likely production.

“Gross or net? Either way, more than you’re paid in a lifetime.” Morla sat beside Rodney, one hand on his knee, which he didn’t appear to have noticed.

The Agent sneered down at her. “How much is he worth?”

“Annual income, or d’you want my husband to include disposable assets?” Morla shot back. “Or shall he just list everything in order of liquidity starting with petty cash?”

The Agent snorted with disgust and turned away. John smirked and Morla winked at him.

Hefferen entered with the deputy, who held some papers out to the Agent.

“It’s like he said, boss.”

The Agent snatched the papers and skimmed over them quickly.

“You can see that everything is in order,” said Lorentik, smoothly.

The Agent thrust the papers back into his deputy’s hands who passed them back to Lorentik.

“I’ll be watching.” He raised a finger and pointed threateningly around the room. “I’ll be watching.”

They left.

“Nasty man,” commented Greyla.

Her mother held her close. “I would say he’s just doing his job,” Rosenta said. “But it’s a hateful job and he’s a hateful man.”

“He’s a dangerous man.” John looked down at Morla. “Nice accounting spiel,” he said.

She shrugged. “I used to do the accounts at Madam Frey’s. One of the boys from the bank taught me a few things because he liked to hear me talk about disposable assets and capital gains and such when we were, er…”

“I get the picture,” said John.

“We had papers already,” said Rodney. “Why did you make us new ones?”

“Ah, yes, I had intended to tell you of my plan. It will take time for me to travel to the university in Teksa’corani and find the information you seek, and meanwhile, I find there is a relatively accurate portrait of ‘Johnny Sundance’ in circulation and a rather less accurate one of ‘Butch McKay’. There is also the mystery of the disappearance of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin somewhere between Teller’s Gap and Tychor, and various unexplained deaths at the waystation between those places.”

“So you made up two employees,” said Rodney.

“I did.”

Morla frowned. “What happens when the Agent finds out we haven’t gone to investigate your mine?”

“He won’t.”

“I dunno. He seems like the kind of guy who would.”

“No. He won’t. Because when he investigates your onward journey he will find that you are exactly where I said you would be. At the mine.”

“Oh.” John scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Right.” His eyes met his friend’s.

“Hi ho,” said Rodney.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off to the mines? Sounds dangerous! You never know what dark secrets a mine might hold…
> 
> Please leave kudos if you’re enjoying my story and drop me a word or two of a comment! I love to hear from readers! Thank you!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes inch ever closer to Teksa’corani and the Stargate, but first a diversion to the mines!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who’s commented - your words are very much appreciated.

Rodney shivered and drew his coat more tightly around him. They had stayed long enough at the Hefferens’ ranch for him to recover from his infected wounds, but the journey north to the mining town had been exhausting. It was snowing again and the single streetlight outside the railroad station cast a cone of sickly yellow tumbling flakes. Narrow slits of orange marked the edges of small, mean windows in the small, mean houses that lined the steep thoroughfare in serried, identical ranks.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50935677132/in/dateposted-public/)

Rodney's head spun with a blur of impressions: the bustling town of Free Weston, with its contrast of nineteenth century tenement blocks against the gleaming space age vehicles of the wealthy; the luxury of their private railroad carriage in comparison to the crowded cars for the ordinary people; and the long journey, which he had spent mainly asleep, lulled by the rocking of the carriage and the rhythmic clack of the wheels. Then the noise and confusion of the change at Gorston, where the southern line met both the main east-west line and the mining branchline that would take them further north.

They’d had to wait on the platform, where they had witnessed a sickening sight: men and women, blank-eyed and hopeless with chains around their ankles, huddled in a drooping cluster, were herded into a closed carriage, packed in like cattle. They were slaves, bound for Teksa’corani, presumably to be sent through the Gate to work for the Wraith. 

Would he and John soon be joining them? Matching their hollow, defeated expressions, merging in with their chained, gaunt limbs? No, surely there was a better way, a way that did not risk ending in a cruel fate.

And as the slave train had pulled out from the station and the last carriage had whisked away before Rodney’s horrified eyes, he had glimpsed a shadowy figure amongst the waiting passengers on the far platform. He’d blinked and it had gone and he must surely have been mistaken, but he had thought for a moment that it was Korda, the young outlaw leader.

Rodney’s toes were numb. “My boots are leaking,” he said. “How much longer are we going to have to stand here?”

“I’m sure it won’t be long, _dear_ ,” said Morla, linking her arm through his. “Mr Hefferen said he’d sent word ahead. There should be someone here to meet us.”

Rodney peered up the narrow, cobbled street. Snowflakes drifted against his cold cheeks and settled on his clothes, while others fell to the ground to join the grey churn of half-melted slush.

"This looks like something." John had his gloves hands tucked under opposite armpits, hunched over despite the thick winter clothes they'd been given.

A carriage drawn by two grennets trundled slowly down the street and pulled up in front of them, steaming clouds of breath furling out from the wide nostrils of the animals.

Nobody got out.

"Is it for us?" Morla huddled even closer to Rodney.

The driver leant around the high sides of the vehicle. "You gettin' in or what?"

"Our carriage awaits," mocked John. He reached up and opened the door and pulled down a hinged step.

They threw in their bags and then climbed up after them.

"Service with a smile," commented Rodney.

The carriage jerked forward. Rodney braced his feet against the opposite seat. There was a nauseating series of lurches and swerves as the carriage turned to head back up the hill.

The grennets surged forward and John caught Morla as she was thrown off her seat. "Inertial dampeners need some work."

More rows of identical houses streamed passed as the carriage slowly mounted the steep hill, the wheels rumbling over the uneven cobbles, the grennets’ hooves skidding and slipping on the forming ice.

“What are we doing here?”

“Hiding in plain sight, McKay. Just a couple of respectable accountants doing their thing. And you with the little wife, to make everything even more cosy.”

Morla elbowed John in the ribs.

The carriage stopped. The helpful attendant did not leap down from the driver’s seat and take their baggage and neither did a welcoming proprietor open the door and usher them into the warmth of his or her hostelry.

Rodney opened the carriage door and kicked down the hinged step. They scrambled out with their baggage and the carriage drove off.

“Nice place,” said John.

A bare glimmer of light shone from dirty mullioned windows. Rodney squinted up at the sign above the door, which read simply, ‘Inn’. “Full of character.”

“I’ve seen worse,” said Morla.

“Maybe it’ll be worse inside.”

They went in. The temperature was barely above the outside cold and only a faint glimmer from an oil lamp on a narrow counter lit the dark-panelled hallway. 

John pushed past Rodney and, wasting no time, thumped on the surface and shouted. “Hey! Anyone here?”

There was silence and the hollow ticking of a clock, then slow footsteps. The door behind the counter opened and a grey-faced woman of indeterminate age and forbidding aspect emerged.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Travven,” said John, with a travel-worn attempt at a winning smile. “This is Mr and Mrs Peel. There should be rooms booked for us?”

The woman snorted sharply. “One room booked for the mine,” she said shortly.

“One room? There should be two.”

“One.”

“Okay, well, I guess there’s been some mistake.” John’s winning smile was morphing into the fixed baring of teeth which meant that he’d really like to be shooting right now. “I’m sure there’s another room we could have.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Come on, Sh- er, Travven, let’s just take the room.” Rodney’s head was aching. He’d sleep on anything that wasn’t moving.

“Fine. Lead the way.”

The woman glared. She reached beneath the counter and drew out a heavy tome which she slammed down. “Sign.”

They signed, using their latest aliases. She showed them up a narrow, creaking staircase and into a room with one bed and a cold, dead fireplace. Snow was mounting on the outside of the window.

Rodney’s breath plumed before him. “Could we have the fire lit, please, Mrs er…?”

“Miss.” She glared. “Bex. Fire’ll be lit when the girl comes in in the morning.” She left.

“And I repeat," said Rodney: "What the hell are we doing here?”

John dropped his bag on the floor with a thud. “We’re safe enough for now,” he said.

“Not safe from hypothermia,” said Rodney. “And something to eat would have been nice, but I can’t see that happening.”

“Good thing I saved some of those pies from Gorston, then, isn’t it?”

“Did you?”

There had been a hot pie seller on the platform and they had eaten the small, meaty pastries, which burnt their fingers and sent streams of fatty juice running down their hands. John took out a paper bag from his capacious greatcoat pocket. They sat in a row on the side of the bed and ate cold meat pies in the dim light from the oil lamp that Miss Bex had left on the mantelpiece.

“So, who gets the bed?” asked Rodney.

“We all get the bed,” said Morla. “You sleep on that floor, you’ll freeze.”

“It’ll be a tight fit.”

“And all the warmer for that.”

Rodney vaguely recalled being sandwiched between Morla and John on his fever-ridden journey to the ranch. The new scar tissue on his arm sometimes dragged and pinched, but gave him no particular trouble. “Who goes in the middle?”

Morla licked her greasy fingers. “John does.”

"Good plan," Rodney agreed.

A muffled, “Why?” made its way past John’s pie.

“Because it’s freezing in here, Sheppard, and we don’t want to have to deal with your brooding stoicism in the morning, that’s why. Although we’ll all probably end up stiff as boards after that journey.” Rodney stood up. “I’m getting minimally undressed and into bed. I suggest you do the same.”

Coats and boots were shed. Rodney took off his pants but left his sweater and shirt over his long underwear and pulled on an extra pair of socks.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50935677182/in/dateposted-public/)

He threw back the scanty blankets and lay down. The springs screeched like an old accordion. “Great. We won’t be able to move without an atonal symphonic accompaniment.”

“We won’t be able to move anyway, Rodney.”

John, similarly attired, got in next to him.

Morla took longer and Rodney watched in fascination as hooks, ties and various other fastenings were released until she stood in long underwear similar to his own. 

“Enjoying the entertainment, boys?” she asked.

“Sorry.” John’s voice came from beneath the blankets, just his eyes and rumpled hair peering above.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50934870818/in/dateposted-public/)

“We’re not watching in any creepy sexual way," said Rodney. "Well, I’m not anyway.”

John kicked him.

“It’s just, I didn’t realise how many complex layers there were to women’s clothes, or how much, er, structure,” said Rodney.

“You don’t think it all stays pulled up and pulled in by itself, do you? No one’s really that shape.”

“I suppose not.”

Morla dragged a huge sweater from her well-filled bag and put it on. It came down to her knees and the sleeves covered her hands. She pulled out various pins and bands from her hair and scrubbed at her scalp as the chestnut curls fell loose. “That’s better.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50935677152/in/dateposted-public/)

John and Rodney shuffled over and Morla turned out the oil lamp and got into the bed, adding a countermelody of shrieking springs. John’s elbow jabbed Rodney in the back of his neck.

“Ow.”

“Sorry. I’m not sure where to put my arm.”

The bed bounced as John arranged himself.

“So, er…” Rodney could hear the smile in Morla’s voice. “If you guys want to do anything…”

“No!” Rodney’s negative was joined with John’s. “You don’t have to - I mean I, we wouldn’t dream of -”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said. “My professional services aren’t for friends. That’d be messy.”

“What did you mean, then?” John asked.

“Well, you know, you two seem pretty close an’ all and I was just wondering…”

“What, me and McKay?” Cold air rushed in behind Rodney as John half sat up.

“Why not?” she said. “My supposed husband doesn’t seem too keen to play-act with me, so I thought maybe…”

“That’s because I’m with Jennifer!”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so!”

“Okay, well, just, if you two wanted to do anything, either together, or, you know, alone, don’t mind me. That’s all.”

“Uh, yeah, I think I’ll leave it for now, thanks,” said John.

“Suit yourself.”

The bed shrieked and grated again.

“Um,” said Rodney. “Will you be, er…?”

“No,” said Morla. She yawned. “Too tired.”

oOo

Morning brought a flat, grey sky and, though nobody came from the mine to guide them, it was obvious which way to go by the looming pall of black smoke hovering above the town. John, Rodney and Morla trudged up through the grit-blackened piles of dirty snow until they came to a high wall, in which was an arched entrance to a large yard.

The mine office formed two sides of the yard, the other two sides of which were occupied, toward the towering black hills, by the entrance to the huge ore-refining works, and on the eastern side, by the inclined lines that ran steeply down to take hopper cars of refined metal to the station, on a rack and pinion system and from there on to Gorston. The manager’s office was on the side overlooking the valley, accessed by the archway that led into the yard and then, doubling back, a narrow door with stairs leading straight up.

John recalled Hefferen’s words: “The main product of the mine is lead, with traces of silver, gold, trinium and naquadah in decreasing amounts, although it's the traces of naquadah and trinium that should be providing the main income of the mine. I say should, because although five years ago when I bought the mine workings, I had a thorough survey carried out and saw the seams at the working face myself, I haven’t seen anywhere near the profits I expected. The workers are all paid a generous living wage and I have insisted on humane working conditions.”

Shouts, metallic grinding and clanking came from the huge refinery shed, and beneath its eaves a distant red glow lit up the gloom, occasionally brightened by an arc of spitting fire.

John turned away from the noise. "Let's see if we can find the manager. What's his name?"

"I don't remember. Kline? Castle? Something like that."

"It was Kimmer, Rodney. Osta Kimmer."

"Right. Call me Antiok, though, _Ferina_."

"Yes, husband," smirked Morla.

John led the way upstairs, knocked at a glass-fronted door and went in without waiting for a response.

A small man sat behind a desk. He reminded John of someone; Radar from MASH, he realised. When the man spoke, his voice had the same light, eager-to-please appeal. He was not the kind of man John could imagine keeping a firm control of the huge workforce and property of a mine.

“Oh. You must be from Mr Hefferen.” He stood up and looked around the room as if checking that everything was in its place. “Remny said he’d tell me when you arrived. That’s the foreman, you know. I’m Osta Kimmer, the General Manager." He held out his hand and they shook it and introduced themselves.

“Mr Travven and Mr and _Mrs_ Peel. I didn’t realise you’d be bringing your wife. I trust everything at the inn is to your satisfaction? Remny said he’d arrange everything.”

“Well, actually -”

“It’s fine.” John interrupted his friend. It sounded like this Remny might be out to cause trouble and John decided he’d rather give the impression that they were going to be pushovers and maybe the guy’d lower his guard just a bit too far.

“So, you’ll be wanting to see the books, then. You’ll find them all in order! We haven’t been as profitable as Mr Hefferen was hoping, I know, but you won’t find any problem with the accounts. All in perfect order! Please, come this way.”

He led them through a door in the far side of his office and into a large room where men and women sat at high lectern type desks, arranged in strictly distanced rows. Nobody looked up as they came in, and there was a very low whispery twitter as figures were added up mentally. John peered at one of the ledgers; there were rows and rows of neat black ink, no errors, no crossings-out. 

“This is - This is -” Rodney wandered between the lecterns, waving his hands.

“Impressive, aren’t they?” Kimmer beamed with pride.

“Impressive?” Rodney continued his inspection of the ranks, his head bobbing up to check out one ledger or another. “Well, yes, I suppose if you wanted a demonstration of Dickensian accounting, then yes, impressive is the word you’d use.” He marched straight up one row and came to a vibrating stop in front of Kimmer, his arms folded. “Where are your computer terminals? Hefferen said he’d had a system installed.” 

“Oh, yes, Mr Hefferen sent that a while ago, but we don’t use it. No, no, the ledgers are what you want. All up-to-date, all neat and ready for inspection!”

“You don’t _use_ the computer?”

“No, well it needs the generator, see? Mr Hefferen had a generator installed? But, Remny, the foreman, says he hasn’t got any workers free to tend to it and it doesn’t seem to work so…” He indicated the ledgers once more.

Rodney seemed to have lost the power of speech. He gaped like a fish and his eyes bulged.

“Okay, I’m sure that’ll be fine, then.” John layered on his best winning smile. We’ll give our mental math skills a good workout. Won’t we, Antiok?” Rodney ignored him. “Antiok?”

“Oh, yes, that’s me, isn’t it? What were you saying?”

“ _Hayal_ was saying that we’ll go through the written ledgers, Antiok, dear.”

“Of course, _dear_.” Rodney’s voice dripped sarcasm. “There’s nothing I’d like better.”

“Where would you like to start? Production or expenses? Everything’s accounted for down to the last candle!”

“Candles.”

“Yes. Pretty dark down there, you know!” Kimmer laughed, as if he were fond of this little joke.

“Let’s start with production,” said Rodney, resignedly.

“While Mr Peel starts on the accounts, could I have a tour of the place? Check working conditions, see what’s involved in the refining process, that kind of thing?” Rodney scowled at him, but John was sure Rodney had the better deal. He didn’t think a tour of the mine would be a pleasant diversion.

“Oh, yes, well, I’ll have to speak to Remny first of course. I’m not sure…”

The door to Kimmer’s office opened and a man stepped through. He was tall and muscular, his face bearded, his skin darkened with ingrained dirt. He wore a helmet with a stub of candle attached and had a small pickaxe hanging from his belt as well as something that looked remarkably like a grenade. He glared at the newcomers.

“Oh, Mr Remny, these are the -”

“I know who they are.” He prowled further into the room, moving lithely for such a big man, his footfalls soft. As he threaded his way through the lecterns his eyes didn’t leave John’s. This man was an apex predator and he’d picked out John as the one to put down, fast.

John held the man’s gaze. “Remny, you’re the foreman, right? Show me the mine and the refinery.” No please, no introductions, no small talk. Confirm the man’s impressions; let him assume Rodney was a mere paper-pusher.

Remny gave a sharp nod and turned away.

“Well, it’s clear to see there’s nothing for me to do here!” Morla tossed her head and pouted. She affected Rosenta Hefferen’s upper class tones, adding a certain petulance. “And it appears this is a town quite without society! I don’t know how a lady is supposed to occupy herself.”

Kimmer rubbed his hands nervously. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, I -”

“Never mind.” She sighed, dramatically. “I will return to the inn and busy myself with feminine accomplishments.”

“I could provide you with an escort, Ma’am.”

“No need.” Her skirts swirled and she flounced out.

What was she up to? John hoped she wouldn’t get into trouble. Remny jerked his head toward the far door and John followed him.

They went down another flight of stairs and then past a room where a slim grey-haired woman was sorting stacks of dirt-stained slips of paper into piles.

“Number three shift sent their figures in yet, Yenet?”

“No, sir, Mr Remny.”

He growled in response and led John on, past closed doors, out into a narrow alley which funnelled the freezing cold wind and in through another door, to the threshold of the real business of mining.

There were rows of benches, with pegs hanging above, festooned with dirty clothing. Remny began to strip off his outerwear.

“It’s hot down there. You won’t need that.” He nodded at John’s coat.

John took off his coat and hung it up. Remny was down to his shirt and didn’t seem about to stop. John took off his sweater and hung that up. The foreman was down to his pants and boots and nothing else. His torso was pale, but marked with black dirt at the joints and creases, hard with muscle and used to a gruelling physical life. John left his shirt on. Remny merely shrugged and handed him a hard hat, with a stub of candle attached to the peak. He smelt of sweat and explosives.

“Candles? Don’t you have safety lamps?”

“Lamps are heavy and not as bright. And you want to see the flame easy; tell if the air’s going.” He gave John a strange look. “We don’t get gas that’ll blow up in this kind of mine.”

“Uh, yeah. Of course not. So, how do we get down? Is there an elevator?”

Remny grunted and jerked his head. John followed him outside to a canopied vertical mineshaft. An engine chugged in a building to one side and a beam projected above John out of the side of the building. It was attached to a great three-armed rocker, which in turn was attached to a rod running vertically into the shaft, which moved slowly up and down, a distance of around four metres per stroke. On the upstroke of each beam a platform, twelve inches square, emerged and was briefly level with the ground before descending again. Remny looked at John with blank challenge and the next time the platform ascended, stepped onto it and disappeared with the downward stroke of the rod.

John waited a few seconds, the platform appeared again and he gripped the handholds on the rod and stepped onto the platform. He was plunged downward into darkness and a warm wind that rose from the depths. At the lowest point of the platform’s travel there was a larger, stationary platform. John stepped back onto it and the rod rose again, bringing a new foothold surging up the shaft toward him. He stepped on and was whisked deeper, grinning, the dry, oil-scented breeze blowing his hair straight up. If Remny had been expecting him to be freaked out by this ride, with its distinct lack of health and safety measures, he was going to be disappointed.

oOo

“What’s that?” Rodney pointed to a column of negative figures.

Kimmer looked over his shoulder. “That’s, er, oh that’s just natural wastage.”

Rodney was glad he’d got his head round the local figure notation. The written language, however, remained a mystery. “What, so this is the quantity of ore mined?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s weighed in its raw state, but then it goes through the rock crusher and gets weighed again?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“This seems like a lot of natural wastage.”

“Oh, well, you know…”

“No. I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Well, maybe some falls onto the ground when it gets tipped out of the truck into the crusher. And then some gets caught in the machinery, I suppose.”

“Hmm. What about here? What’s this?”

“That’s after the first smelting, so that gets rid of most of the impurities and gives the first idea of the total yield of the ore.”

“But, look, there’s another ‘natural wastage’ column here, between the first and second smelting. I don’t know how much you think it’s plausible to waste naturally, but this is pushing the bounds in my opinion.”

“Oh, well, you see, that’s what I thought, but Mr Remny explained that there’s a high percentage of stubborn impurities in this latest seam. So they get burned off in the second smelting and you’re left with a lower yield that you expected.”

“Really.”

Kimmer nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Hmm. And looking at your percentages of your five main products, I’m more than a little surprised how little naquadah and trinium you seem to be getting compared to lead.”

“Yes, it is disappointing. Initial samples in this current seam indicated quite a different proportion. Still, that’s the way with mining. You never quite know what’s down there, do you?”

“Apparently not,” said Rodney. There were certainly a few scams going on in the production process, but who was running them? Was Kimmer the clueless dupe he seemed to be? And where was the ‘speaker’ through which Hefferen had told them to report their findings? It had sounded, from Hefferen’s description, like some kind of radio. If it was in Kimmer’s office, they’d have to get the manager out of the way.

Rodney slammed the ledger shut. “I think that’s enough of the figures for now.”

“Oh. Are you sure? Don’t you want to see the records of consumables? Everything’s fully accounted for, down to the last candle!”

“Sounds fascinating.” Rodney’s stomach felt like it needed a sharp injection of something sugary. Breakfast at the inn had been far from satisfactory.

“It is! You see, at most mines, the consumption of candles is highly uncontrolled.” He lowered his voice. “The workers steal them, you see. To use in their own homes.”

“Surely a few candles won’t make a difference?”

“Every chet counts when profit is at stake. Surely, as an accountant -”

“Yes, yes, of course, every chet… So, how did you check the mass outflow of candles?”

“Green dye,” said Kimmer folding his arms. “So anyone can tell. If you see a green candle in the town, it’s been stolen.”

“Oh.”

“But that’s not all!”

“Really?”

“The dye is poisonous!”

“Why?”

“The candles are made of tallow. If the workers could eat them, they would. They did, until they were green and poisonous.”

“They ate the candles? Why? Your wage bill is huge. Nobody should be that hungry.” Rodney’s stomach rumbled uncomfortably.

“I don’t know. But it’s a fact. They used to eat the candles. Now they don’t.”

Rodney stood up and eased out his back, aching from stooping over ledgers. “Well, I need to eat something and I don’t want a candle, green or otherwise. Where’s the best place?”

“It’s about that time, isn’t it? Please, lunch with me. My wife will be delighted, I’m sure.”

oOo

It was hot; oppressively hot, and John undid his shirt buttons and the buttons of his underwear top. Sweat slid down the side of his face and trickled down the line of his spine. He was in a broad horizontal shaft, supported by huge wooden posts and cross-beams. A narrow-gauge track ran along one side of the shaft, along which heavily-laden carts were rumbling, pushed by sweating men.

John would have liked to ask questions, but as a supposed mining expert, he kept them to himself. Remny had noticed the occasional glances he gave the grenade, though.

“You have Deep-diggers at your mine down south?”

“Some of the shafts are pretty deep.”

The foreman shook his head, impatiently. “No, I mean them that live down there! Deep-diggers? No?”

John shook his head. Creatures? That lived deep in the mine?

Remny unclipped the grenade and tossed it up and down in his palm. “We carry these, always. You break into a nest, you pull the pin and throw it.”

“Isn’t that a bit risky?”

Remny gave a bark of derisive laughter. “You’re dead anyway, if you don’t. Teeth and claws that break through rock, and that’s no lie. You kill ‘em, or they kill us. Simple as that.”

He clipped the grenade back on his belt and wordlessly led John along the shaft until they came to a narrower side shaft, lined with mine workers, sitting on the ground. Rails ran along the centre and John and Remny stood to one side as a cart emerged from the darkness brimming with rock. As it drew alongside John saw that two women were pushing it.

“Breaktime,” said Remny, shortly, jerking his head at the sitting group. “They get three breaks per full shift.”

The miners stared back at John, their eyes white in filthy faces. There were women as well as men, old and young, although he didn’t see any children. Hefferen had told him very young children used to be employed, working in appalling conditions, but he’d put a stop to that. A man stood at the entrance to the tunnel, arms folded, the peak of the helmet shadowing his eyes. His mouth was a grim line, but he nodded at Remny as they passed. The uneven walls cast leaping slashes of black in the candlelight and John almost missed the rifle, propped against the wall behind the silent man. 

Remny led the way between the ranks, until the lantern light from the main shaft was left behind. The foreman took a tin out of his pocket, struck a spark and lit the candle on his helmet and then John’s.

They went on, and then turned off the railed route into an even narrower side passage, which led through to another railed tunnel, and from there John was led through a bewildering series of passages and cuts, until he was sure Remny was deliberately trying to confuse him.

They passed miners on their knees, hacking at the raw rock, and others shovelling the ore and the dirt into the carts; they passed narrow tunnels that were completely dark, which, nevertheless rang with the impact of metal tools. Crossing a wider shaft, John was sure he heard the patter of light feet and a child’s cry, but Remny moved relentlessly on and he followed, knowing he’d never find his way out on his own.

Then Remny led him into one of the smaller tunnels. John had to bend double and as the ceiling dropped still lower he crawled on hands and knees. Ahead of him Remny’s flickering flame had come to a halt. He turned to look at John then took the small pickaxe from his belt. He ran a hand along the wall, his fingers assessing the rock. He swung, with more force than John would have thought possible in such a small space, and with a metallic crack, struck splinters of rock from the wall. He struck again, then worked the tip of his tool into the crack that he’d made and prised out a tumbling rush of small pieces of rock. He picked one up and passed it to John.

The rock felt curiously heavy in his hand.

“High yield of lead,” said Remny. “You try. Just here.” He nodded toward the area he’d just worked on,

“Okay.” John moved up alongside Remny. 

The foreman sidled round him in the narrow space and then forced his way past John, back down the shaft. He crouched, watching.

John held out his hand. “You gonna let me have the axe, or do I use my teeth?”

The man didn’t move. His face was in shadow, the candle flickering above the peak of his helmet. If their candles went out, there’d be no light at all, not to see your hand in front of your face, not to see the way out, not to see anyone who might care to attack.

“Forty years,” said Remny.

John waited.

“Forty years I’ve worked down here, man and boy.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I know this mine, inside and out.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Every tunnel, every shaft, every new working, every old. Light or no light, it makes no difference to me.”

John didn’t respond.

Remny reached up and snuffed his candle. Then he lunged forward and did the same to John’s.

oOo

Mrs Kimmer was a female version of Mr Kimmer, except, Rodney decided, she was even more dormouse-like, if dormice wore glasses with small, round lenses, which both Mr and Mrs Kimmer did. She stooped and twittered and fidgeted with the dainty latcha cups, picking up the small, silver spoon, and stirring her own drink repeatedly, despite the fact that she’d added neither milk not honey, nor a pinch of the dusty-looking spice powder. She did, however, make a rather satisfying lunch. There were damp slices of puddingy, fruited cake, sandwiches of thin, brown bread that had low transverse rupture strength, rather like rye bread, and finger-shaped cookies of jaw-cracking hardness. Rodney dipped one in his latcha, which proved a more than satisfactory solution.

The Kimmers lived in the dwelling (it could hardly be called a house) on the other side of the arch from the office. It was next to the inclined railroad, where hoppers full of metal bars ran down to the station and others were simultaneously winched up, so the desultory conversation was regularly interrupted by the grating rumble of a passing load. Neither of the Kimmers commented on this, merely waiting until the noise had died down before continuing their sentence.

Mrs Kimmer fidgeted with her lace-edged handkerchief, forgetting that she was holding one of the finger biscuits, which became tangled in the fabric. “Have you been in this business long, Mr Peel?” 

“Oh, hmm. Long enough. It’s er, not my only line of work.”

“Let me guess,” said Mr Kimmer, eagerly. “I bet you moonlight as an actuary! You have that ruthless look about you.”

Rodney smiled, thinly. “I think you could safely say I spend a fair proportion of my time calculating risks, assessing the odds, that kind of thing.”

“I knew it. You probably found my accounts very dull.”

Rodney took a large bite of his cake-pudding to avoid having to give an answer.

The rumble of a passing hopper broke up their conversation as Mr Kimmer was about to speak, and before the noise had died away, the door to the yard burst open and a small, dirty child catapulted into the room.

“Mr Kimmer, sir, Miss Yenet says number three shift ain’t handed in their figures yet and what should she do, ‘cause Mr Remny’ll be on her case like a tonne o’ grennet shit.” Hungry eyes slid toward the lunch spread, lingering on the cake.

The accountant swiped the child on the back of the head. “You mind your language, young Brekken. Miss Yenet never said that!”

Brekken was unfazed. “Sorry, sir. What’ll I tell her?”

Mr Kimmer looked at Rodney apologetically. “I’ll have to deal with this. But you stay and finish your lunch.” He departed, the skinny child hopping at his heels, a large piece of cake gripped in his hands.

Mrs Kimmer set the cake plate back on the table. “One has to feel sorry for them, having to earn a living so young.”

“I didn’t think children that young were employed.”

“Oh. No. They’re not, of course.” The lace handkerchief came into play again, receiving a thorough wringing between agitated hands. “Because Mr Hefferen said if the adult workers were paid a decent wage, the children wouldn’t need to work.”

Rodney put down his plate and brushed the crumbs off his hands. Another hopper rumbled past. Mrs Kimmer stared down at her handkerchief. The lace had torn along one edge.

“Oh dear. Such fine lace. I’ll have to stitch it, but it’ll never be the same.”

“Mrs Kimmer?” She didn’t look up. “Is there anything you want to share?”

“No. No, I mustn’t. That is, there isn’t anything.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “That boy. How old was he?”

She looked up and there were tears in her eyes. “It’s the children,” she said, her voice trembling. “He said… He said I’d better keep quiet, because… Because if I don’t…”

“What? What would happen?”

“Down there. It’s so big, so dark; nobody could find their way out if they didn’t know.”

“Has someone threatened you? Tell me!”

“Oh, I can't! The things that go on here… I shouldn’t say. Mustn’t say. But, the little ones. I keep seeing their poor faces, whenever I close my eyes.

“Tell me.”

She stood up and looked out of the dirty window, down over the grim streets of the town and away into the iron-grey distance. 

“It’s all lies,” she said finally. “Lies, corruption and greed, right down to the deepest, darkest shaft of the mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s Morla up to in the town? Will the mine foreman abandon John in the darkness? Is there any cake left for Rodney? Find out on Tuesday! And, please, keep the comments and kudos coming. They make me happy!
> 
> If you would like to see what the terrifying 'man engine' is like, [follow this link for a moving diagram](https://images.app.goo.gl/NpbT2k3xy4K4CeMZ9). This one has two opposing shafts, rather than the single one at our mine, but you get the idea.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mines are full of danger and suspicion - and some more interesting characters! Read on for adventure, and can you spot the line lifted from Pride and Prejudice?

Blackness and silence surrounded John; utter, impenetrable blackness and silence so thick that his breathing and heartbeat became a deafening roar of white noise. His instincts screamed at him to push off the hard, cold ground, though he knew the roof of the tunnel was only a few inches above his bowed head; he wanted to surge to his feet and run, his legs and fists pumping, to run and run until he found the light that had fled so far and so completely. Instead he remained still; crouched silently in the dark, small space, and waited. Had Remny gone? He couldn’t hear the other man; couldn’t hear his breathing or any movement of boot on rock to confirm his presence. Had the foreman slid silently back down the narrow tube, deep beneath the surface of the earth? Had he left John alone to blunder about in blindness until he fell down a pit, or died of thirst, or stumbled on a nest of Deep-diggers and was devoured along with the rock? Or was he slowly, silently approaching, his axe raised, ready to strike?

There was a sharp crack of stone on steel, and John blinked at the ghost of a point of light. The crack came again and light flared, flickered and steadied.

“You don’t scare easy, do you?”

John’s heart thundered and cold sweat trickled down his chest. “No,” he said.

Remny reached forward and lit John’s candle. Then, with no explanation, he turned round and crawled back down the tunnel.

They moved silently through the maze of mine workings, until, once more, John heard the crack of pick-axes on rock, the scrape of shovels and the clanging thud as the ore-bearing rubble was loaded into carts. They reached the main tunnel at the base of the lift and followed it to the far end where the trucks tipped their load into swinging hoppers, which took the rock to the surface on a conveyor system.

Then the lift carried Remny and John in steps and hops to the surface again, where bright, snow-reflected daylight lanced into John’s eyes.

Remny took him through the black and red inferno of the refinery. The great furnaces blazed with fearsome heat, streams of molten metal ran hissing into moulds, and huge clouds of steam roiled up into the air as slag burned its way down the side of the hill into a vast pit. Men and women with hard eyes and grim scowls moved efficiently about their work, with no room for banter in a job where a moment’s distraction could result in death or hideous injury.

They emerged into the light once more, the archway before them, the hoppers of refined metal running down to the station and the empties running back up.

“That’s all,” said Remny succinctly. He turned and walked away.

John looked up at the sky, grey and heavy with snow. He took a deep breath of the metal-tainted air and let it slowly out. Above the snow clouds, far above them, though he couldn’t see it, John knew that there was blue sky; and, above that, the sky darkened to indigo and then to black and then there was the vacuum of space. And far out in that vacuum, across a vast distance of emptiness, lay another planet and another blue sky and a city of spires and towers, light and beauty, which meant, to John, belonging and friends and home. But here, there was darkness; darkness below and, if John was any judge, darkness above also. There was injustice and corruption and greed and the source of these things was as yet unknown. But, he’d find it. He’d find it and root it out and he and Rodney would leave this place better than it was, when they’d been left here, far from home.

oOo

“Liver.”

Three tin plates smacked onto the table. Rodney eyed the dark brown meat, swimming in its thin greasy sauce. He adjusted his position and the hard wooden chair creaked threateningly beneath him. Did all the furniture in this place sound like it was only holding out under protest?

“Um, yes. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this appetising dish exactly the same as the delightful repast you served us this morning?”

“Grennet liver,” Miss Bex stated, baldly. “It’s what there is.”

“Well, thank you for confirming that,” Rodney replied brightly, glad that he’d cast appealing looks at Mrs Kimmer’s pudding-cake and been sent away with his pockets full.

The grumpy proprietress stomped out of the dining room, muttering.

John picked up his fork and poked at his dinner. “It’s meant to be good for you, isn’t it? Liver?”

“Yes.” Rodney began cutting his piece into very small chunks to minimise, or even eradicate the need for concentrated and intense mastication. “Bye bye vitamin A deficiency!” He shovelled some in and swallowed, successfully avoiding most of the bitter taste and dry texture.

Morla began to eat steadily, in the manner of one resigned to unappetizing meals.

Rodney swallowed another mouthful and took a drink of the faintly beer-flavoured water. “So, a summary of our day’s findings! Mrs Dormouse hinted at all manner of exploitation and corruption, but then clammed up. I got the impression she'd been threatened, so I'm guessing the foreman’s up to no good. 

"She did tell me that she suspects the workers are being paid far below a living wage and that the difference is lining somebody’s pocket, but she insists not hers. She was prepared to keep quiet but for the fact that young children continue to be employed in a variety of gruelling and dangerous jobs.”

“There’re definitely kids down there,” said John. “I heard ‘em more than once.”

“They’d obviously been told to make themselves scarce,” Morla said.

“Yeah and the workers just happened to be having a break when I was towed past.” John sawed his knife back and forth through his liver, to no discernible effect. “There are a bunch of overseers armed with shotguns that I didn’t like the look of, and there’s some stuff going on in the refinery too, I think.”

“I’m sure there is,” said Rodney. “And, just to widen the range of the horror spectrum, we apparently have Rodents of Unusual Size to deal with.”

“I’d rather not deal with them at all, Rodney. But we do need to infiltrate the place somehow. Get an eye on the inside.” John put down his knife and fork and pushed his plate away. Rodney reached out to draw it toward himself. _Waste not, want not._

Morla gave him a quelling look and pushed the plate back toward John. “You should eat that up. You’re going to need it.”

“Who made you my Mom?”

Morla smiled. “You men think you’ve been doing all the work. What about _my_ day?”

“What about it?” asked Rodney.

She placed her knife and fork neatly on her empty plate and sat back in her chair. It creaked alarmingly and she leant forward again, casting an uneasy glance down. “I went to the local shops, such as they are,” she said. “And I listened and I learned.”

“What’d you learn?” said John, wiping an unpleasant stream of liver juice off his chin. 

“Mostly that no one can afford to buy much. But, did you know, the workers’ houses all belong to the mine? And that if they don’t go to work, they’ve got seven days to clear out?”

“Harsh,” said Rodney.

“Very, because what do they do if they’re sick or injured?” 

“I don’t know. _You’re_ telling this tale of Dickensian suffering.” Rodney gave up on his liver and drew a small parcel of cake out of his pocket.

“Someone else has to go. Each worker has a token and if they can’t go in, they find someone else, give ‘em the token and they go instead. It happens all the time. But it means that sometimes it has to be the children, sometimes a wife, leaving her little ones behind, and sometimes they just can’t find anyone and they lose their homes.”

“Hefferen can’t know about this.” John continued doggedly eating.

Morla shrugged. “He seemed to be a fair man, but who knows?”

John stopped his sawing and looked across the rickety table, resignation in his eyes. “So, let me guess, I’m going down the mine?”

Morla nodded, accepting a piece of cake. “I talked to one of the women; her husband’s sick, children are just babes, she’s heavy with another. But she’s got no one else to go, so it’s go herself or the whole family’s out on the streets. I offered you,” she said to John, biting into her cake.

“Thanks.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You can’t do that!” said Rodney. “All that axe-swinging and whatever else miners do? There’s no way you’re up to that!”

“Thanks for that show of faith, McKay.”

“Oh, but come on, be realistic. You were a wreck when we got to Hefferen’s place. Even I knew that, and I was totally out of it.”

“He had a gym, Rodney. I spent a lot of time there getting things in shape again.”

“You stiffen up when you get cold.”

“It’s warm down there. Hot, even.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“What do you suggest, then? _You_ wanna go down?”

“No.” Rodney shuffled uncomfortably. “Of course, I would, but I’m not sure that I’m cut out for that kind of thing. Enclosed spaces. Darkness. Not to mention those Deep-diggers Remny told you about, although I’m more than half convinced he was winding you up.”

“There you are then.”

“Anyways, how are you going to get in without being recognised? You were down there today.”

“I’ve arranged for that,” said Morla. “Serren, that’s the woman whose husband’s sick, says to go to their place early tomorrow; she’ll make sure you look the part. You take her Rogget’s token and just follow the others. It happens all the time. Alting, they call it. You can’t go in, you send an alternative; an alt.”

Rodney sighed. “It’s off to work you go, then.” He pushed a large piece of cake toward John.

oOo

There was only one room downstairs, for cooking and all family life. John guessed the tall cupboard door in the corner of the room hid a narrow staircase to the upper room and that the tin bath hanging from the back door and some kind of arrangement outside constituted the meagre sanitary facilities.

Serren, young, careworn and heavily pregnant, ushered him to a chair by the fire. In another chair sat a gaunt man, his skin grey and damp, his deep-set eyes red-rimmed. He acknowledged John with a faint nod and then his eyes closed.

“Thank you for doing this,” said Serren. “I’d’ve had to go myself, no matter what.”

“You’re welcome,” said John. Two pairs of eyes gleamed from under a sturdy wooden table in the centre of the room. John waved. A small hand waved back.

Serren studied him, her pale blue eyes considering. She folded her arms over her bulging stomach, her head on one side. “Hmm.”

John looked into the fire, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“Those clothes will all have to go. They’re much too fine.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll be too clean as well, because you can sit in that there bath and scrub and scrub, but after a few years, the black sits in the creases, so to speak, and you’ll never shift it.”

“I guess not.”

“I’ll sort out some of Rogget’s stuff. Take all that off.”

“Um.”

“You’ve nothing I’ve not seen before.”

She began pulling clothes down from a drying frame suspended from the ceiling.

“You haven’t seen mine,” John muttered, but nevertheless began to undress.

Serren dumped a pile of clothes on the table and then disappeared out the back door and came back with a bucket of something. John had stripped down to his long underwear, but wasn’t about to go any further in front of a complete stranger.

“You’ll have to take those off,” she said. “They don’t wear ‘em down the pit. It’s too hot.” She paused. “I’ll turn my back.”

She turned away and began folding the expensive clothes that Hefferen had given him and stowing them in a cupboard.

“Take some of what’s in that bucket and rub it into your joints, where it’d get caught in creases.”

John took a handful of the black grit and rubbed it into his skin, around his elbows and under his arms. He stopped short of doing his legs, hoping he wouldn't be required to take his pants off down the mine. He brushed off the excess and put on the loose pants and shirt laid out on the table and the old woollen suit jacket over the top. It didn’t feel like much against the winter cold.

“Try these too.” She handed him a ragged old scarf and a flat, peaked cap. John put them on and she nodded in satisfaction. “You’ll do.”

John hoped he'd 'do', when Serren pushed him out into the swirling snow. It was still dark and he had heavy eyes from an uncomfortable night, a stomach that hadn’t decided what it thought of his breakfast of gritty sludge, and a huge cheese sandwich that looked like it’d fight back, wrapped in a handkerchief and stuffed in his pocket along with Rogget’s pit-token.

He joined the flow of silent workers trudging up the hill toward the mine. The cold bit through his clothes and John felt his muscles trembling. They turned off the main street before reaching the yard and made their way round the side, to the room with rows of hooks. You could put your stuff anywhere, Serren had told him; you just had to remember where. John copied the other men, taking off everything apart from pants and boots. The few women retained a variety of cut-off shirts or vests. He followed the flow toward a huge counter, where miners were passing over their tokens and taking equipment. Some were given massive axes and others shovels. Serren had said John could expect a small axe, like Remny’s, because her husband was one of those who worked the small spaces. Everybody was issued a grenade. His two items clipped to his belt, John waited his turn for the man engine to take him down. He imagined the place in cross-section. He’d look like a pixelated character in a video game, descending the levels; he hoped there weren’t any ghosts ready to eat him.

oOo

“No!” Rodney’s hand was smacked away. “The pink slips go on this pile. How else will we know how many trucks each man’s filled if we don’t take proper care?”

Rodney swallowed an equally sharp rejoinder and forced his mouth into a pleasant smile, with extremely limited success if the administrator’s sour face was anything to go by. “You said pink slips are the coal delivery notes and they go over there.” Rodney pointed to a pigeonhole against the far wall of Miss Yenet’s office.

“No. Those are pale pink. These are salmon pink.”

Rodney bristled with every hair. “Pale pink? Salmon pink? That’s ridiculous! What kind of a system relies on shades of pink? What if you’re colour blind?”

Yenet’s entire face pursed up. “I’m not,” she said, with great self-satisfaction. She sighed dramatically. “It’s always the same when outsiders come. You just don’t take time to learn the system properly before you start to criticise. When I was your age I had more respect for established ways!”

Rodney rolled his eyes. Learn the system from the ground up, he’d thought; track down every little swindle, every little abuse. And, to begin with, it seemed like the capable Miss Yenet in her den of pigeon holes would be a useful ally. She’d seemed flattered. There had been a certain amount of eyelash-batting and references to the rarity of ‘young men’ paying her attention. Then he’d made the fatal mistake of jotting down some notes on the back of an apparently abandoned slip of grubby white paper, whereupon the goddess of thwarted administrators had descended in her wrath, plucked the offended article out of his contaminating hands and cradled it to her meagre bosom.

“That’s a delivery note!” she’d exclaimed in horror. “Pit props from Sahanva on the western line!”

Ignorance had been no excuse and from that moment, hostilities had been very thinly veiled.

“What’s this?” Rodney held up a blue slip, a few illegible words and figures scrawled across its neatly-printed form.

“That’s one of Mr Remny’s sign-offs,” she said.

Rodney turned it one way and then another, making no sense of the writing.

Yenet held out her hand. She took the paper and smoothed it out, lovingly. “Figures from number two shift in areas lower G, upper F and middle H checked and verified,” she said. “Always very efficient, Mr Remny. A stickler for the old ways!”

“Really? He seemed more like someone you wouldn’t want to meet down a dark alley to me.”

She gave a loud tut. “A rough diamond, perhaps. He’s worked down the pit all his life. _He_ knows my system.”

“Good for him. I suppose he works the system in some way too? Takes his little cut?”

“I beg your pardon! I’ll have no such disrespectful talk about Mr Remny, thank you!”

“Oh, well, it was just a thought.” It was more than a thought. It was a certainty as far as Rodney was concerned. “I suppose Mr Kimmer’s an efficient enough type? He seems to respect the old ways, or at least he doesn’t seem bothered about using the computer system.”

There was a ladylike snort and a slightly furtive look toward the door to the upper floor. “Well, I won’t say anything against him,” she said. “Mr Hefferen employed him when he took over. He’s always polite,” she said, grudgingly. “And Mrs Kimmer’s a nice lady. Very respectable. Always wears a hat and proper long gloves, even in the summer.”

Rodney wasn’t sure how this made anyone respectable but hummed in wise agreement. “M- er, My wife’s spending the morning with her.”

“Really.”

No approval there. Perhaps Morla wasn’t wearing the right kind of hat. Or gloves.

“Mrs Peel is a very _young_ lady, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” How old was Morla, in Earth years? Twenty-five or so?

“You should keep an eye on her. Girls like that can easily have their heads turned by these miners. The men come up from the pit half clothed and with language to make a well brought-up young lady blush.”

“Presumably if the young ladies are blushing they’re not about to have their heads turned,” said Rodney. “Whatever that means.” He thought it more likely that Morla would make the miners blush.

Miss Yenet sniffed. “Excuse my interference - it was kindly meant.”

“No doubt,” said Rodney.

oOo

As Rogget’s ‘alt’, John had been taken in by the sick man’s work mates and shown the narrow passage where he was supposed to spend the majority of the next ten hours. He crawled in. Remny had made it look easy; with a couple of judicious swipes he’d brought down a fair cascade of rock. John wasn’t sure where to start or even how to arrange his body so that his arms had some room to swing and some weight behind them. He tried kneeling, one knee and shin resting on the ground, the other before him. He had to bend forward to avoid his helmet banging the jagged surface above. His first attempt sent the pick bouncing back, jarring his arms and narrowly missing his face. He tried again and some splinters and chips flew out. There was a derisive snort behind him.

“Who’s there?”

A scuffling from the darkness brought a small child into view, white teeth grinning in a dirty face surrounded by short, ragged hair. John couldn’t tell whether it was a girl or a boy.

“It’s Venna, innit? Rogget’s mole.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50949838546/in/dateposted-public/)

“Mole?”

The blue eyes rolled. “Ain’t you bin down a pit ‘afore? Rogget bashes the stuff and I shoves it back down there so that Menty, that’s our shoveller, can chuck it in the cart. We’re a team, see?”

“Oh.”

“Only Menty’s back there leaning on her shovel with nothing to do and she’s gonna be up here in a minute cursin’ a blue streak. ‘Cause if you don’t get a shift on there’ll be no brass for any of us.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

“Go on, then. Bash it!”

John bashed. A moderate shower of rock fell from the wall.

“Ancestors save us,” muttered Venna.

John continued to bash and hack and hit until he was running with sweat and breathing hard. He stopped and sat back. He’d made a dent in the rock wall, but it didn’t look like anywhere near enough to fill a cart. Venna had cleared it all away, scooping it back down the passage, her hands lost inside a very worn pair of adult-sized gloves.

“Wotchoo stopped for?”

“Tired,” John panted. “When do we get a break?”

She (or possibly he) laughed outright. “The same time they serve latcha in little flowery cups with itty bitty handles!”

“Huh?”

She sat down next to John and instructed him on the pattern of his day. “You gets one break, when we all has our snap, see?”

“Snap?”

“Scran, grub, food!”

“Oh, right. One break.”

“Yeah. And you don’t want no more.”

“Don’t I?”

“Course you don’t! We’re paid by the cart, ain’t we? You gets six in every ten chets, Menty gets three and I gets one.”

“Only one?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m a kid, ain’t I?” She rolled her eyes again. “So, go on, then, get on with it! The first ten years are the worst, they say!”

John resumed his back-breaking, arm-breaking work. How did people live like this? Hacking away underground for hours upon hours? And yet they did, and John knew they did on Earth too, or at least they had, and he thought there were probably some places on Earth where conditions were still just as bad as this.

He couldn’t keep it up, though. He knew he couldn’t. He’d have struggled with this ten years ago, fighting fit and in his physical prime; he certainly couldn’t do it now with his scarred, abused body. And he wasn’t really down here to work anyway. He let the pick-axe fall once more.

“Now, what?”

“Er, yeah, look Venna, you see I’m not really here to work.”

“You’d better bloody work ‘cause me and Menty ain’t gonna be letting you out any time soon!” She raised a small gloved fist, which would have been comical except for the deadly seriousness of her pinched face.

“Look, I’ll see that you’re both paid. I’ve got money.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” Venna didn’t seem mollified at all by this offer.

“Yes, I have. Hefferen sent me. To find out why the mine's not producing as much as it should."

"Not producing, my arse! Everyone knows this lot's rich in silver, even us young 'uns." She slapped the wall. "And where there's silver there's trinnie, ain't there?"

"Trinium?"

An angry voice echoed up the shaft. "Venna, you little vrax, what the hell are you doing up there?"

"That's Menty kicking off," said Venna. "She'll be up here after you in a minute and don't she just pack a fair old wallop!"

"Let’s head her off, then."

Venna shrugged and disappeared down the tunnel. John followed, his muscles already stiffening up, the flickering candlelight catching on Venna's retreating heels. She had bare feet.

oOo

Rodney had decided to investigate the workings of the refinery as he thought it likely that there was most scope for profitable fraud at some point in the refining process. As a pretext for entering the forbidding area, he’d taken some outgoing goods paperwork from Miss Yenet’s sanctum, with her reluctant permission, with the idea of seeing the real ingots behind the messily scrawled figures.

He could feel the heat even before he stepped in through the wide doors, and it was stifling inside. He loosened his collar. The loading area was on the far side, nearest the drop-off to the slag pit. There were shouts and the clanging of heavily dropped metal, which proved to be the loading in progress. Morla, however, had beaten him to it and, viewing her provocative pose and the way one hand played around the low-cut neckline of her dress, he realised she was deploying her professional persona to manipulate an admiring group of men. He hung back and watched.

“This is really just lead? It’s so shiny!” She dropped her head and looked up, eyelashes fluttering. Her admirers were like Ronon on steroids; all glistening, bulging muscles and sheepishly admiring grins. Morla ran a finger tip along the top ingot in the large pile, her bitten lip and half-smile suggesting that that very finger might run itself elsewhere for some lucky man. “Can I pick one up?” she asked.

This was greeted with eager nods.

“They’re real heavy, little lady.”

“But I’m _real_ strong.” She pouted and there was more fluttering. “When I need to be.”

Several of the men shuddered and nudged each other. Morla gripped the ingot in both hands and moaned dramatically as she tried to lift it. “Oh! It’s so big!” One man turned away to adjust his pants.

‘Big’ was really pushing it, Rodney thought. It was only about ten inches long. But Morla’s stroking hands suggested she wasn’t thinking that much about lead ingots. She sashayed across the loading area, swinging her hips and wiping sweat from her brow with a breathy sigh.

“There are so many!” She ran rippling fingers over the top of another stack of ingots. “Are they all going to the city? To Teksa’corani?”

There was a rumble of assent.

“I wish I could go too. It must be so… exciting!” She slid her hands caressingly round an ingot and lifted it a little way, before setting it down gently. “I wonder how quickly you boys can load these up? I might have a reward for the winning team.” She pouted her lips and her gaze roved around the crowd as if mentally undressing each man in turn. Then her eyes fell on Rodney and a hand flew to her open mouth. “Oh! Husband!”

Drawing together memories of his Sears Drama Festival award, Rodney strode forward, the picture of husbandly disapproval. “Ferina!” He folded his arms across his chest and frowned.

Morla hung her head, her lower lip trembling.

There were mutterings of, “Poor little thing,” and “Shame,” and various inarticulate growls.

Rodney snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground by his side. Morla scuttled. Tears trembled on the ends of her lashes.

“Don’t be too hard on the little lady, Mister.” A hulking figure loomed out of the crowd and glared at Rodney, one meaty fist clasped in the other as if the man were assessing the damage it might do if let loose on Rodney’s face.

Rodney sneered, picked up Morla’s arm and tucked it into his own. “I don’t need the likes of you to tell me how to deal with my wife.”

The thug was persistent. “You want me to bash this creep, Missus?”

Morla looked up. “Oh, no.” She shook her head vigorously, her curls bobbing. “No, my husband’s right to be strict.” Rodney received a worshipful glance, followed, in a smoky, throbbing tone by: “It’s what I need.”

There was general shuffling and self-conscious throat-clearing.

Rodney patted her hand and nodded approvingly. “Come along, dear. We will leave these men to their work.” He steered her out.

They crossed the snow-covered yard and Rodney lost control of their course when Morla tugged him beneath the archway and continued down the steep hill.

“But - I was going back to the admin office. I’ve got some of Yenet’s precious forms!”

“Never mind that.” She giggled. “Oh, you’re so strong and masterful, Mr Peel!”

“I have to be with a wife like you,” he said. “What were you up to in there?” She didn’t reply and he glanced down to see a highly self-satisfied smirk establish itself on her pretty face. “What? Did you find anything?”

“Ooh, it’s so heavy!” she moaned.

“What? Lead? Of course it’s heavy, that’s why they say, ‘heavy as lead’.”

“Hmm. Except some of those bars were heavier than others.”

“They must have been different products, then.”

She shook her head. “The boys said they were all lead. But, thanks to you two outlaws I know what a gold bar feels like, and some of that was as heavy as gold. Maybe heavier. And before you came along, they were loading up some others by the armful; chucking them in as if they weighed nothing.”

“They can’t have been lead, then, can they?”

“How much does trinium weigh? Or naquadah?”

Rodney stopped, his hot breath puffing out in front of him. “Trinium has both incredibly low mass and incredible strength. Naquadah is super-dense.” He spun around, fingers snapping, palm slapping fist in a flurry of realisation. "Candy bars!"

"What?"

"Candy bars. A thin layer of chocolate on the outside, but who knows if it's a Snickers or a Milky Way if they're labelled the same? Who knows if it's the delicious lightness of nougat and caramel alone or with added peanuts?" His mouth began to water. He shook his head. "Anyway, with a covering of lead it could be naquadah, trinium or Kentucky fried chicken in there! God, I'm hungry!"

“So, it looks like the mine’s producing a load of lead and not much else?”

“Yes, whereas really, well, who knows what this place is worth? Are there many more mines on this planet?”

“I guess so. I’ve heard of a few.”

Rodney stopped and looked at the mean little houses around him. And these were luxury compared to the shacks at the edge of Gulderren. How many others in this world lived in poverty?

“Rodney?”

“I bet it all goes to the Wraith.” His voice cracked in the freezing air. There were two young children sitting in the gutter, rags wrapped round their feet, faces pinched with cold. They were damming the thin trickle of meltwater with bits of dirt. “There’ll be a few fat cats taking their cut and then the rest gets taken.” Rodney looked out over the roofs of the houses, rank upon rank of narrow streets, filled with families barely scraping a living. “This world is rich! Rich beyond most people’s wildest, craziest dreams! D’you know how much one of those bars of trinium’s worth? No? Well, neither do I because it’s not even worth trying to put it in monetary terms! Enough to give everyone in this town a decent meal, that’s for sure, and not just for today but for a year, two years, more! And this is how they live!” He flung out an arm at the two children, who stared at Rodney, their eyes huge.

“We’ve always been told we’re poor. There’s nothing much on this world. That’s why they call the Wraith our protectors.”

“Protectors!” He spluttered with rage. “Not for much longer. Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.”

“I’ll help,” said Morla. “I’ll help you and John.”

They walked on down the hill, side by side.

“So?” Morla glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Do I get a reward for my discovery?”

Rodney was suddenly aware of the closeness of her cherry – no, _morla_ -red lips. “Oh, well, um, yes, well done and so on.”

"I was hoping for a kiss. From my husband."

"But I'm not really your husband am I? And if I went round kissing my science staff every time one of them did something right… Okay, no, that's a bad example. They never do anything right. Anyway, no. No kiss."

Morla's face fell. Her sparkling eyes lowered to study dirty grey snow. "Oh. Never mind, then." She sniffed.

"Oh for heaven's sake." He stopped, bent down and aimed a quick peck at her cheek. Morla tipped her head so that it landed squarely on her lips, bringing up her hands to Rodney’s collar to hold him in place.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50949131203/in/dateposted-public/)

Then she released him, winked and marched away down the hill.

oOo

Venna had run off to play at whatever dangerous game kids played at when they were let loose down a mine. John tried not to think about it too much. They’d both been sceptical at first, she and the shoveller, Menty, and John had kept a watchful eye on the heavy, sharp-edged tool that the older girl held casually, her hands spaced wide apart on the shaft in a competent, weapons-ready grip.

“You’d better have the money,” she said, glowering, her substantial biceps twitching. “Or it won’t be just me after you. There’s plenty that’ll back me up.”

John didn’t think she’d need a great deal in the way of back-up. “I’ve got the money. We can go straight to the inn at the end of the shift.”

“Alright, then,” she said, grudgingly. “So, what d’you want to know?”

“Can we maybe sit down?”

Menty lowered herself to the dirty ground. John sat next to her.

“There’s a bunch of overseers with firearms. What’s that all about?”

“Those are the new blokes,” said Menty, wiping her nose on the back of her hand and sniffing with gusto. “Been here a year or so, now. There was some trouble with people nicking stuff, or so they said.”

“Nicking stuff?”

“Yeah, you see, over in middle H we was onto a good seam of trinium, really pure. And, you know that stuff, even a little bit’s worth a fortune, so some people thought, let’s have a bit of that. They hid it - in their clothes to begin with - then when they started searching people, they hid it… in other places.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” She sniffed again and spat. “So, they got these blokes with guns in, to put people off, so they said. And I heard there’s things going on down in lower H now, with the new blokes and all kinds of funny-looking kit, but none of us ever get set on down there.”

“Things? What kind of things?”

“Don’t know, do I? That’s what I said. No one but the new blokes ever goes down there.”

“Where is it, lower H? How do I get there?”

“You don’t, unless you want your arse shot off.”

“Yeah, see, now I’m definitely going.”

“You’re mad, you -”

A sharp, high squeal interrupted her and a child’s cry, cut short. John leapt to his feet.

“Leave it,” said Menty.

There was another cry, this time a yelp of pain.

“Someone’s in trouble.” John set off toward the source of the sound, Menty yelling after him.

Light from John’s candle made the tunnel a bobbing, weaving web of black and yellow. His breath echoed against the confining walls. He burst into a wider space to see Venna on the ground and a man looming above her, a leather strap in his hand. Another man stood nearby, arms folded, watching. Workers had stopped, shovels poised in their hands, but none were intervening.

“Tell me what you’re doing away from your work!” He brought the strap down again and Venna yelled in pain. “Tell me!” He raised the strap once more, but, with swift, pounding strides, John launched himself forward and sent the overseer sprawling onto the ground.

He got in an uppercut to the lantern jaw and a knee in the man’s gut before his opponent reacted, throwing John backward and bringing his fist round to snap John’s head to one side. John’s helmet flew off and he hit the ground with his elbow, but got his feet under him quickly and sprang up.

“You’re gonna regret that, pit-scum!” The overseer’s fists were clenched into bunches of rock. His colleague stood watching, his arms folded casually, as if he were ready to be entertained.

John dodged as one of the boulder-fists flew toward his face. He punched hard into solid, muscle-covered ribs and then stuck his foot behind the other man’s ankle, tripping him as he moved backward, so that he toppled over and landed hard in the dirt once more. A roar of anger accompanied his surging thrust as he threw himself at John, landing a flurry of random hits to John’s ribs, shoulder and face. John dropped to the ground and then thrust upward head-butting his opponent in the stomach and forcing the man's breath out in a great shout of pain. Then he rolled to one side and narrowly avoided a boot flying toward his head, the other man having decided to join in the fray.

This was too much, and John knew he could expect no help from the other workers. He’d have to run. Could he grab Venna first? He put up his forearms to ward off blows from the second man.

A furious roar filled the air. Definitely time to run. But the blows had stopped. The men had backed off. John swiped blood and sweat out of his eyes and stepped back, his balance shaky.

“What the hell’s going on here?” It was Remny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will the foreman rescue John or leave him to his fate? And how will Rodney react to Morla highjacking his kiss?
> 
> Did you spot the Jane Austen line? It was Miss Yenet, the administrator, who had a line of Caroline Bingley’s: “Excuse the interference - it was kindly meant.” Kindly meant. Yeah, right then. Miss Yenet is based on an administrator I worked with years ago, at a concrete fabrications company. Wow, was she a tricky customer! She guarded her filthy scraps of scrawled-on paper with a jealous eye and a sharp tongue and made mincemeat of minions like me! Good for her!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to all my wonderful readers and reviewers! I’m glad you’re all coming along for the ride. Now let’s get on with the action!

"What the hell's going on here?"

John took another unsteady step into the shadows, but one of the overseers grabbed his shoulder and shoved him forward.

"This scum's getting what's coming to him!"

"Why?" The peak of the foreman's hat pointed toward his underling, then moved inevitably onto John's face.

"'Cause he didn't like me givin' the little rat a belting!"

Remny tipped his helmet back. He looked at John, but his eyes betrayed no recognition. "I'll deal with this."

"We can -"

"I said I'll deal with it."

The overseer's hand tightened on John's shoulder. John tried to shrug him off, but was rewarded with a blow to the side of his neck.

"Leave him!" Remny's fists clenched suggestively.

The grip on John's shoulder released and he was shoved, stumbling forward.

"Kimmer'll have to be told. He won't like it."

"Kimmer's upside. I'm the boss down here."

One of the overseers gave a short, mocking bark of laughter and Remny squared up to him, thrusting his jaw close to the man’s face. The workers around them subtly changed their grips on their shovels and closed in.

Remny’s voice was as dark as the deep tunnels. “I’m the boss down here. And I’ve had enough of the likes of you. You get back down to lower H where you belong.”

“You’ve gone too far this time, Remny. You’ll be out before the end of the shift.”

Remny, totally unfazed, shook his head. “You believe what you like. There ain’t no one knows the mines like me, _and_ all of the workers, down to the last young’un. What d’you think would happen to you down here, if I wasn’t around?”

Someone dropped the head of their shovel with a heavy clang.

The overseers glanced at each other and then retreated, cursing and threatening into the darkness.

There was a brief silence.

“Back to work,” said Remny. His eyes pinned John to the spot. “You come with me. And you two.”

“Mr Remny, I -”

“Shut it, Venna.” He snapped his fingers. “My office. Move.”

oOo

"Wait. Morla, wait!"

She turned and looked back, the shiny black feathers in her hat bobbing in the gusty wind. Rodney picked his way down through patches of ice on the treacherously steep cobbles until he'd caught up with her.

"What?"

He opened and shut his mouth, then growled his frustration through gritted teeth. 

Morla’s brows drew together, a doubtful smile half-forming. “Rodney?”

He huffed, folded his arms, tipped up his chin and stared into the greying sky. "I don't... That is I'm not the kind of… I mean… “ He studied her pretty, young, confusing face. “Oh God, why can't you just speak JavaScript? Or C plus plus? Or even BASIC, for heaven's sake?"

"What are you talking about, Rodney?" She put one hand on his tightly defensive arms.

"That! That's what I'm talking about!"

The hand was withdrawn, her face blank with hidden hurt. "You don't want me to touch you?"

"No. Yes. No, because I don't know what it means!"

She shook her head, her lips parting. “I don’t…”

"Because if you were Jennifer, it would mean… Well, I'd know what it meant because we're together, so you have to assume there's a certain level of affection, even, dare I say it, intimacy. But with you, I don't know, because maybe it's just part of our husband-and-wife act, or maybe it means… something, or maybe it's just a game that I don't know how to play or maybe it's some kind of platonic or sisterly thing and, God, I hope not because I really don't need another sister, or maybe you see me as a father figure, which I think is worse -"

"Rodney, breathe!"

He took a deep, dragging breath of the cold air. It hurt his lungs.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean… Oh, it's too cold to stand still!"

"It'll be just as cold at the inn."

"Let's just walk." She hesitated. "I'm going to put my arm in yours because I'm pretending to be your wife and because it'll be warmer that way. Is that alright?"

This seemed logical. "Yes. Yes, that's fine."

They linked arms and set off down the hill.

Morla's face was hidden by her hat, the tips of the feathers pointing down. Maybe she had a 'thing' for him and now she was upset. He didn’t want her to be upset. He didn’t want her to have a ‘thing’ for him; did he? Why would he? It was a lot easier when they had a 'thing' for Sheppard, because then Rodney didn't have to worry about what to do. Of course Sheppard was equally clueless in his way, but he just went with the flow.

"My life's not been that easy, you know," she said.

Rodney braced himself for a confessional.

"I'm not going to tell you all about it. I don't want to talk about that stuff."

He released a relieved breath.

"It's just… I never really... I mean I was pretty young when I… “ She gave an exasperated huff. “You see, at Madam Frey’s, I know what to do, how it works. The men come and, barring the details, which I won’t go into, I know what they want and I know how to act; it’s black and white. So, I’m not really sure how to do, you know, normal stuff. With men who see me as a person and not just, I don’t know, something to be used.” She grimaced. “That makes it sound really bad, and they’re not all bad. Anyway, this - with you and John - it's been like a holiday for me. A break from real life. Outlaws and gold bars, big houses and wealthy folk, fine clothes and play-acting: it's all so different, so exciting! No one telling me to do things I don’t want to do, or doing things to me that I… Anyway, I'm grateful. I'm happy. But, those things, the kiss, the touching? I like you and I'm happy and that's how it comes out. And I’m not saying I wouldn’t… But I mean you’ve got your girl, so… I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. That’s all."

"Oh. Okay."

"I can try to stop. If you want."

"No. It's… it's okay. I just needed to know." 

They walked on.

"So, have you kissed Sheppard?"

"No." She looked up at him, her face shaded by the brim of her hat. "Just you.”

oOo

Remny’s office proved to be a roughly squared-off antechamber not far from the man engine. The foreman lit a lantern as they entered and John was surprised to see the room was remarkably homelike. There was a rag rug on the floor, various cupboards fastened to the wall, a desk and chair and a sagging old couch. There was also a cylindrical heater; Remny picked up a kettle from the floor and set it on the hot plate on top.

“Sit.” He nodded toward the couch.

Menty sat down on the very edge, her hands between her knees, her broad shoulders rounded nervously. Venna flopped onto the sagging cushions and then jiggled up and down a few times, making the springs creak, until Menty elbowed her.

John rubbed his aching neck. “I, er -”

“Sit.”

He sat. Sweat dried on his bruised skin and he shivered, despite the usual stifling warmth. Remny rummaged in a cupboard and set a clatter of tin mugs on the desk, followed by a wooden box.

“Make yourselves useful,” he said to Venna and Menty. He flipped open the lid of the box, revealing a medical kit.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Remny. “Or no more stupid that you’ve already been. Infection kills, sure as the Deep-diggers or a cave in.”

“Tell us about the Deep-diggers, Mr Remny!”

“You’re not here for stories, Venna.” He nodded again toward the box and then poured out four mugs of latcha. He sat down, leant back in his chair and took a long, grateful gulp of his drink. “So, Mr Hayal Travven, let’s hear it, then.”

John winced as Menty found the cut on his elbow and Venna began vigorously cleaning the side of his face.

"Hefferen sent me. Us."

Remny nodded. "I thought you were another from the city, but I see now you're not."

"From the city?"

"Like that lot down in lower H and them that seem to run the refinery now. Kimmer’s men. Or whoever he answers to."

“He answers to Hefferen.”

“Does he?” 

The cuts on John’s face and the scrapes on his elbow and knuckles stung from disinfectant. His ribs ached. Remny passed him a cup of latcha.

“You took Rogget’s token. Why?”

John sipped, winced and touched his cut lip. “He’s sick. And I wanted to find out what it’s really like down here.”

“It’s hard.”

“You told me there were no kids and that the workers had proper breaks.”

Remny shrugged. “It was like that for a while, when Hefferen took over, but then wages fell, families can’t earn enough without the kids working too. More breaks means less pay - the workers don’t want ‘em.”

Menty and Venna hummed agreement.

“Why did you cover it up?”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50959337242/in/dateposted-public/)

Remny took another gulp of his latcha. John sipped the boiling hot brew. “The pit’s what I know,” said the foreman. “It’s always been hard. I’ve been down here since I was younger than this one.” He looked at Venna. “Worked my way up. Things get better, then they get worse. We just keep going, do the job as best we can.”

“Hefferen doesn’t want it run this way.”

“Hefferen’s not here.”

“What’s in lower H?”

Remny rubbed his stubbly chin. “Ah, well, that’s what we’d all like to know, isn’t it?”

“Don’t _you_ know?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been down that way. They said the rock was unstable, that it’d cost too much to shore it up. Used to be one of the secret places, that did. Splits and cracks that only a little’un could get through.”

“I tried to get down there once,” said Venna.

“That you did, little vrax, and a good thing I caught you before those others did.” He set down his cup. “I went down there, a long time ago, when I was a mole for my Da. Pushed my way through with no heed to the loose shale falling down round me.”

“What did you find, Mr Remny?”

“First I found an empty nest, all the rock round about cut and scarred by teeth and claws, bones of things dragged down, some that looked human.”

Venna gasped with enjoyment.

“Then, well then I found something I never told no one about. Deep down it was, so deep that I’m thinking I was lucky to find my way out alive. But then, I’ve always had a nose for the ways of the dark pit.”

“What did you find?”

“I found a seam; a broad seam. It shone when my candle lit it, shone like you’ve never seen anything shine; a band of trinium, nearly pure I reckon and streaked with the darker grey of naquadah. Beautiful it was. But too deep for our axes. Too far from the main workings.”

“But it’s being worked now.”

“It is. And worked with tools that make more noise than a man with an axe. Worked by outsiders.”

John frowned. “Hefferen doesn’t know.” 

“No, and he wouldn’t’ve either if they hadn’t got greedy. I’ve seen the books. Output’s down so low, it’s not worth working, not worth owning. Maybe that’s the idea.”

“What, so he’ll sell?”

Remny shrugged. “But who wants to buy, that’s what I’m wondering.”

oOo

Rodney’s nose had twitched before they reached the inn, with its dreadful sour monotony of tough grennet liver. He had towed Morla down a side street and found a tiny bakehouse selling hot pies which they ate wandering along the alley, the overhanging upper levels and lack of right-angles in the surrounding buildings an indication that this was an older part of town.

The tip of Rodney’s nose was pink and his cold hands were grateful for the warmth of the greasy pastry, even when the juices spilled out and burnt his fingers.

“We need to get into Kimmer’s office,” he said, licking his fingers clean of grease. “And use whatever primitive device this ‘speaker’ turns out to be to contact Hefferen.”

Morla smirked. “One distraction, coming right up!”

“You’re going to work on him with your feminine charms, with his wifey-dormouse just across the yard?”

“Yes, why not? She won’t come out. And if she did, what’s she going to do?”

“You spend the morning with her, eating her cakes, no doubt, then you try it on with her husband. Full marks for expedience, zero marks for morality.”

Morla shrugged. “I’m just using what I’ve got.”

“Hmm, come on then Mata Hari.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

The hill hadn’t got any less steep and Rodney was puffing hard by the time they reached the top. Morla made for the door at the foot of the stairs to Kimmer’s office, but Rodney shook his head and pointed breathlessly across the yard.

“Forms,” he said.

They went into the administrator’s office.

“You were a long time with those.” A flat palm demanded the outgoing goods forms.

“All in order, thank you!” said Rodney, snatching his hand back before Yenet’s grip closed on it along with the white slips of paper. “Is Kimmer in?”

“ _Mr_ Kimmer has company. Of a sort,” she said, with a disapproving sniff. “A rather rough young man who was sniffing around the yard. I’m surprised Mr Kimmer agreed to see him.”

“Oh,” said Rodney, without much interest. Morla would have two targets to charm out of the way.

“I think there might be trouble.”

“What kind of trouble, Miss Yenet?” Morla asked.

“Well, he wasn’t an Agent, but he had a couple of wanted posters. They always print them on the same size and grade of pale yellow paper, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” said Rodney, uneasily. “Did he say why he wanted to see Kimmer?”

“Oh, probably a couple of outlaws have found their way into the workforce. It happens. A mine’s a good place to hide if you’re wanted by the law.”

Surely it couldn’t be. Could it? That fleeting glimpse he’d caught, back at Gorston station; Rodney had dismissed it as imagination and travel-weariness, but what if it really had been Korda? What if he had followed them, tracked them down? When they'd first seen the wanted posters back in Teller's Gap, he and John had guessed that Korda was behind them; his gang killed or scattered, the gold whisked away, maybe he'd thought John and Rodney had been in league with Ferdan's gang all along.

Miss Yenet continued. “Oh, and you wanted to see the computer system. I connected it up to the generator. It’s through there.”

“What? I thought it didn’t work. I thought Remny wouldn’t fix it.”

“Oh no, it’s Mr Kimmer’s orders that we do things the old-fashioned way. And why not? What was good enough for the old days is good enough for us.”

Cracks began to appear in the picture Rodney had built up of the organisation. "I’m going to go and check a few things in the ledgers,” he said. “Come along, dear.”

Rodney made his way up the stairs, Morla following.

“It was Kimmer!” she said. “Maybe he’s the villain here and not Remny. And who’s this ‘rough young man’?”

He turned and beckoned her closer, so that they stood on the same stair. “You know the gang leader we told you about? Korda?”

“The train robber? The one who was going to kill you?” Morla pointed upward and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

He shrugged. “Let’s find out.”

The accounts staff were busy, as usual, muttered calculations and the scratch of fountain pens the only sounds in their secluded lair. The door to Kimmer’s office was shut. How to listen discreetly?

“Go on, then, check your figures.” Morla yawned, a delicate hand in front of her mouth. “I’ll just be over here, getting bored.” She flicked her curls and sauntered between the lecterns, a spoiled beauty goading her respectably dull husband.

Rodney looked over a few shoulders, ran a critical finger down some neat columns and gave a few hums, which the staff could interpret as approval or otherwise, as they chose. Morla took up a position leaning against the wall next to the office door, inspecting her fingernails and casting an occasional look of contempt at the workers. Rodney continued his inspection.

Suddenly Morla was at his side once more. “It’s too, too dreadfully dull, Antiok! You must take me back to the inn at once!” Her voice was petulant, but her eyes spoke of warning.

“Of course, dear,” muttered the downtrodden wretch that was Mr Antiok Peel, while Dr Rodney McKay set his mind to work on a plan of action.

oOo

John realised he’d lost his cheese sandwich. He remembered its fat, promising bulge in his pants pocket when he’d been working; it must have fallen out in the fight. But that was the least of his worries.

“You’re in trouble, you and Mr and Mrs Peel,” said Remny.

“Yeah, thanks, I’d just figured that,” said John. They were bound to find out what was going on; Kimmer would be looking for a way to stop them.

“Dangerous place, a mine. Plenty of scope for accidents.”

“Hmm.” Was Rodney safe? And Morla? Had something already happened to them?

“How are you meant to contact Hefferen?” asked Remny.

“He said Kimmer had a speaker in his office we could use.”

“Only if Kimmer’s out of the way. Which could be arranged.”

John looked up.

“I don’t like the way things have gone and maybe I should’ve acted sooner. I don’t care who makes their fortune - if it’s Hefferen or Kimmer or whoever’s pulling Kimmer’s strings from up in the city - but I do care that people here are struggling to earn a decent wage and I’d go a long way to get things back how they should be.”

“That don’t include me going to school, do it? ‘Cause I don’t want to.”

“You’ll do as you’re told, young Venna.” He turned back to John. “What’s your plan, then? You could split and take your news to Hefferen direct, or we could try to get Kimmer out of the way to use his speaker.”

“Hefferen’s gone up to Teksa’corani. How long would it take us to get there from here?”

“A good couple of days, even by train. Longer by stage.”

“Let’s try for the speaker then.”

Remny stood up. “Right, you two, off you go and find a team that needs some help.”

Neither Menty nor Venna moved.

“This one said he’d give us chets,” said Menty. “Instead of our day’s haul.”

“I’ll see you get a fair day’s pay. Go along with you.”

Menty rose and nudged Venna with her foot. Venna pouted, but got up, muttering, and allowed herself to be herded out. She smirked at John over her shoulder as she left.

“What’s the plan?” John asked. He eased himself up from the couch and stretched out his arms; stiffness from his work with the axe vied with pain from his fight.

“I’ll get Kimmer out of his office, you go in and use the speaker.”

“Simple, but hopefully effective,” said John. “Where’s the speaker? I didn’t see any tech when I went through his office.”

“Top right hand drawer. You know Hefferen’s code?”

“Yeah.” John ran through the numbers in his head.

Remny doused the lantern and they headed for the man engine, stepping onto the narrow platform at the bottom of its travel, first John, then Remny. Up and step off, then on again and up further, a series of sweeping rises and side steps, taking them steadily up to the surface.

John looked up to see the square of white light slowly growing larger with each upward sweep. He wondered if it was still snowing. He’d get his shirt and jacket and the old scarf and flat cap, but they wouldn’t be enough, not after the thick, oily heat of the mine. He’d radio Hefferen and then go back to the inn and put on as many clothes as he could find. Maybe even eat some of Miss Bex’s leathery liver, if it was hot.

The light grew brighter and bigger and the hot updraft seemed to blow him upward until he was surrounded by brightness and the sharp bite of chill air. John stepped off and blinked away the pain in his eyes and shivered as the warmth left his skin. Out in the yard, shapes moved against the white.

“Sheppard! Go back! Get back down!” Rodney’s voice, harsh with hissing urgency.

“McKay?” He hovered on the threshold of the kit room, eyes darting nervously toward the yard, Morla close behind him.

“Sheppard, it’s Korda!”

oOo

The door near the archway had opened, just as Rodney and Morla had stepped out from the admin office into the yard. He’d steered them round, an abrupt about-face, and they’d hidden, and watched as Kimmer marched out, Korda at his heels, calling to a group of men loitering outside the refinery, clay pipes in their hands. The pipes had been swiftly replaced by weapons.

He and Morla had made for the miner’s exit, round near the man engine, but Rodney hadn’t known what to do. John was down the mine; all Korda had to do was wait for him to come up. He’d have to go down and warn him, but then they’d both be trapped.

And then, there was John, and then Remny, at the top of the man engine, blinking and blinded by the snow light, fully exposed to view. And there was movement and urgent voices in the kit room behind him; there would be no escape that way.

Typically, John had immediately hustled Rodney and Morla on to the man engine before him, each clinging to a handle of the shaft, their heels hanging off the tiny platform, no time to think about the drop beneath them if they slipped. Rodney looked up as the light receded. John was up there still. He heard weapons fire. He and Morla stepped off onto the static platform and watched the shaft rise on its upward stroke. And just as the next level reached the top of its arc, there was an explosion from above so that he nearly missed his footing as the next platform rose. Were John and Remny above him, on their way down? Had they made it?

There was nothing to do but keep going, a step at a time, the warm updraft lifting his hair, Morla's frightened eyes glimmering as they passed each lantern.

They reached the bottom and watched the platform rise away from them. Sweat broke out on Rodney's forehead, from the fear and the heat. 

"Sheppard! Are you there?"

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50958533948/in/dateposted-public/)

Had the tiny patch of light at the top of the shaft been obscured for a moment? By John? By Remny? Or by pursuit?

"McKay!"

Rodney breathed again. John and the foreman descended smoothly and stepped off.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

“We’re fine.” John grinned. “My grenade happened. Pretty sure I got Korda.”

"Good riddance!"

"My office, quick," said Remny. "They'll not be long."

"This way." John pushed Rodney and Morla ahead of him. 

Morla stumbled. "Damn skirts!" She hitched up the loose fabric and ran.

The heat was intense; how could anyone work all day in this? They made several turns until sweat ran down Rodney's body and his head swam with the heat. He wrenched his tie loose, and then Remny was hurriedly lighting a lantern in a small, square room and plundering a tall cupboard and slamming down firearms and ammunition onto a battered old desk.

"Can you fire a gun?"

"Yes, of course," Rodney replied.

"Sure," said Morla, picking up a rifle, checking the mechanism and loading it.

Remny glanced at her and opened another cupboard. "Put these on."

"Rodney, take it."

Rodney took the weapon John held out to him. Sweat was pooling in the small of his back. Fabric tore. Morla had on some worn tan pants and had ripped away her skirts. "Take some of that off, Rodney. You’ll overheat!"

"Yes, yes of course." He threw off the jacket and waistcoat then took the shirt off too and rolled up the sleeves of his long underwear. Immediately he felt better without the stifling restriction, and his head cleared.

Remny was stuffing ammunition in his pants pockets. His eyes glittered intently as he lit the candles on his and John's helmets. "Follow me close," he said. "Don't stray."

Rodney was glad of his pounding, adrenaline-fuelled heart as he followed the foreman through the mine workings. He was glad of the gun in his hand, the heaviness of the bullets in his pocket, the scrutiny of the dark faces that paused in their work and regarded them with startled eyes as they passed. Any and all of these things were distractions, and when you had thousands upon thousands of tonnes of rock above your head and no idea how you would get out into the clear fresh air, distractions were good.

"Rodney. You alright?" John's face was beside him, darkened with dirt... and were they bruises?

"Yes. Have you been fighting?"

John shrugged as he ran, a typically Sheppardy manoeuvre. "Some."

"Huh. Where're we going?"

John shrugged again. "Hey, Remny! Remny, wait up!"

The foreman stopped.

"What's the plan?"

"Depends."

"Depends?" Rodney leant against the wall of the tunnel, his chest heaving. "On what?"

"There's an old access shaft." Remny jerked a thumb in the direction they were heading. "Might not be safe." He paused and scratched his chin. "Could be Kimmer's sent men round that way."

"Oh, well, that's fantastic. What a brilliant plan."

"Yeah, Remny, that doesn't sound great. Isn't there another way?"

"We can lose them, easy. Stay down here as long as it takes."

"As long as it takes for what? For us to starve?" The two little flames fluttered in the warm breeze. How far down were they? Rodney shuddered.

"There are other ways. We'll try this first." Remny turned and his light retreated down the tunnel.

"Off we go, then," said Morla.

oOo

John stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"What's wrong? Are they coming? Have they found us?"

"Don't think so." The pattering had stopped, but John was sure it was more than an echo of their footsteps. "Come on, let's go."

Remny's light had nearly disappeared above the upward curve of the uneven tunnel. They followed, but the pattering at the edge of John's awareness followed too.

"Keep going," he whispered to Rodney. "I'll catch you up."

John reached above the peak of his helmet and doused his candle. Then he flattened himself against the rocky wall and waited in the darkness. Rodney's footsteps receded. The hesitant stop-start tread approached, closer and closer. John waited. Then he reached forward and grasped at the whisper of sound.

Somebody shrieked. “Oi! What? Geroff!”

“Venna.”

“John. Wotchoo doing grabbing people in the dark?”

“What’re you doing _following_ people in the dark?”

“I weren’t sure it was you, were I? Might’ve been an overseer, or anyone. Where you going, then?” There was a click and a spark and a candle flared, lighting Venna’s smudged face and bird's nest hair.

“Things got a bit unfriendly with Kimmer’s men. Remny’s taking us to another way out.”

“No he ain’t, then. You won’t get out this way.”

“Why not?”

“Blocked innit? I had a go a sennight since. Snow’s fallen down the shaft and the weight of it pushed the timbers out even worse than they was.”

“Great. Come on, we’d better catch the others up.”

Remny relit John's candle and rubbed his chin thoughtfully when he heard Venna’s news.

“Now what?” Rodney’s eyes darted anxiously between John’s face and the foreman’s. “I don’t know about you, but I was kind of looking forward to getting out of here sometime in the next… oh, maybe before we all die!”

“Can it, McKay. We’ll get out.”

“How? Because I know I’ve got us out of any number of screwed up situations, but, hey, darkness, rock and more rock? You’re going to have to give me something to work with here!”

Morla took hold of Rodney’s arm. “We’re all in this together Rodney, and we’ll all get out together.”

He put a hand on hers. “I hope so, because at the moment it’s not looking great.” 

“There’s another way,” said Remny,

“Fine. Let’s go, then. Lead the way.” Rodney’s finger snaps fluttered in echoes down the tunnel.

“It’s tricky.”

“Tricky how?” said John.

“Well, we’d have to go deep, then across, through where the new workings are. Then, if it’s still there, there’s a way out past that.”

John ran a hand through his gritty, itchy hair. The rest of him felt gritty and itchy too. And he was hungry.

“So basically,” said Rodney, “we have to get past all the people who’d like to either kill us or feed us to the Wraith and then there _might_ be a way for us to get out to the freezing hillside where Kimmer’s lot are probably lying in wait and if we get past them, they’ll know we’re heading for the inn next?”

John dismissed this rant as his friend’s usual need to get his fears off his chest. “You got anything to eat, McKay?”

“What? Oh. No, dammit, I had some meat pies but I left them in my coat pocket.”

“I brought them,” said Morla.

“Really?”

There was a rustling and a meaty smell. John’s stomach rumbled. He took the paper bag and offered the pies round before taking one himself.

“I’m fair gut-foundered meself,” said Venna, spraying crumbs.

“How delicately put,” sneered Rodney. “Don’t eat them all!”

“Rodney, we had ours.”

“But I -"

"Need to eat regularly. I remember.” There was more rustling.

“Oh. Hard candy. Are you sure it’s not -”

“Citrus. Yes.”

“Really? Oh. That’s… er. Thanks.”

“C’mon, McKay,” John wiped crumbs and grease from around his lips and gave Rodney a hearty slap on the back. “Let’s go.”

“You should make yourself scarce, girl." Remny stopped Venna with a firm hand on her shoulder. "You’ll run into trouble if you stick with us.”

She wriggled free. “I ain’t going back. They was bashing people around back that way, wanting to know where you was.”

“Oh they were, were they?”

“Yeah, but no one told ‘em nothing. Anyway, I’m coming with you.”

They followed Remny. Seldom with room to walk upright, more often bent double or crawling, they traversed passages and crevices, skirted through caverns long since stripped of their treasures, down narrow ladders, their rungs half eaten away by rust; down and down where handholds were scarce and the shape of the tunnels had more to do with the ancient splits in the planet's crust than any man-made workings. And then John found himself stepping off a ladder into six inches of water.

John's legs trembled from the long descent. “Is this normal?”

“Course it is,” said Venna. Still with energy to spare, she kicked up the water and candlelit drops flicked into the air and landed on Rodney’s pants. She ran after Remny, laughing.

“Why do they always hate me?” asked Rodney. He leant against the wall, massaging a cramping calf muscle.

Morla patted him on the shoulder, her own shoulders rounded with exhaustion. "Greyla didn’t,” she said.

"Venna's just winding you up. Come on.”

They splashed through the water, which was as warm as the surrounding rock, and for a while John thought his ears were playing tricks on him until there definitely was a low throbbing rumble in the far distance. Remny’s light bobbed steadily back and forth and John had become so used to following just that one point of brightness that he was surprised when he could see a faint yellow-white glimmer in the passage ahead.

The tunnel rose until it was once more dry and the light level increased along with the low rumble, until the passage was filled with a rhythmic roar and a shaft of bright light lanced into the darkness from one side. Then a shattering, stuttering, grinding noise split the air and made the rock tremble around them. It stopped, then began again.

The roof of the passage lowered until, straight on, there was just a jagged dead end. But the foreman crouched down and John saw that there was a low hole to one side, through which light was streaming. He knelt next to Remny and, as his eyes adjusted, he realised he could see a horizontal rail. His hands on the ground, John leant forward, like a mouse peering out of its hole. 

He could see a cavernous space, its walls supported by many wooden props and huge columns where rock had been left in place. The walls were grooved in regular corrugations – the work of machinery rather than men with pick-axes – and as John looked, the shattering sound of a metal drill on rock came again. How was it powered? Not through any means evident on the surface. But the resources of Wraith were many, assuming they were involved.

He couldn't see any Wraith; but he could see men. The cavern was a hive of busy activity.

John shuffled back into the passage.

"What's your plan?" he asked Remny. "How do we get past that lot?"

"It's changed," he said. "They've extended a lot."

"What does that mean?" Rodney crouched down and took a look himself. "There's hundreds of them! We are so screwed!"

"Remny? Can we get out this way?"

The foreman shrugged. "The old workings are due east of here. That way," he said pointing at the dead end.

"The track runs that way." Rodney's voice was muffled, his head inside the hole.

"We could get in an ore cart!" Venna pushed her way into the hole beside Rodney. "Look, there's one." She squeezed in further until her feet disappeared completely. "At the end of the cave just inside a tunnel. It’s a proper big ‘un. You couldn’t push that!"

"There must be a locomotive somewhere,” said Rodney. “Get back!" There was a scuffle and an indignant squeak from Venna. "You'll give us away sticking your head out!"

They both emerged from the hole.

"The track runs into a tunnel," said Rodney. "If we could get that far, we'd have a chance."

John crouched down again to look. The men were mostly busy over the far side of the cavern, but it was brightly lit. "Well, we can't stay here." He checked his rifle and patted the ammo in his pocket. "One at a time, we make a break for it, as far as the cart. Don't run, just take it slow. Sudden movements are more likely to draw attention. Remny, you go first. I'll cover you, then you cover us."

The foreman nodded, crouched down, and forced his way, grunting, through the narrow hole.

John knelt, his weapon at the ready, his eyes on the activity in the cavern as Remny sauntered casually over to the cart.

"Rodney, you take Venna next."

"I don't need no escort!"

"Do as you're told, brat." Rodney disappeared through the hole, followed by the girl's slight form.

"Go on, Morla."

"You come straight after!"

"Of course."

"No heroics, no trying to draw them off?"

"Promise."

"Alright then." She slid her rifle through the hole and then followed it.

John peered into the cavern. Work was proceeding, undisturbed. His mixed bag of teammates stood in the shelter of the ore cart; except McKay. Where was Rodney?

John wriggled through the hole, rock scraping his bare skin. He stood, slowly, feeling exposed in the bright light. He tried to affect Remny's casual saunter, out into the cavern and along the track toward his friends, the skin of his back crawling with apprehension. Nearly there.

"Hey, you!"

He kept walking.

"You. Stop!" A weapon ratcheted, threateningly.

He turned around, just an innocent worker about his business.

"Who, me?" The effort was wasted. It was the man who had beaten Venna.

John ran for it, ducking into the shelter of the cart just as the gun fired. The bullet clanged on the cart's metal sides.

"Get in!" John fired round the end. "Get in, now!"

Behind him there were grunts and curses as the team scrambled into the cart. More bullets hit. Shouts rang in the cavern. The drilling had stopped.

John pulled himself up and over the side, as Remny let loose a barrage of covering fire. He caught a brief glimpse of men coming toward them, weapons raised, before he slithered down into the base of the vehicle.

They were safe for now, but their temporary haven was a trap, with no way out. There were too many of the enemy. They would soon be surrounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! How are the gang going to find a way out of this sticky situation? Find out next Tuesday!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in the mining cart in the deepest workings of the mine, how are our heroes going to escape the besieging baddies? Get ready for a helter-skelter, drama-filled chapter!
> 
> Illustrations are based on paintings by the pulp artist Mort Künstler and, as usual, there are larger versions in my separate art post.

"They're coming!" said Morla, firing steadily, her rifle resting on the edge of the cart. She ducked down as sparks flew next to her hand. "I'm out." She set about reloading.

"Let me help!" Venna picked up Rodney's weapon.

"No!" John snatched it off her. "Just keep your head down."

He climbed over Rodney, who was tangled in a heap of electrical equipment, and began firing into the stream of attackers, choosing his targets carefully, picking them off one by one. The men scattered to either side, hiding behind pillars and machinery, but more men began to leave their work to join in the battle.

“We can’t stay here, we'll be overwhelmed.” John let fly another round. "We'll have to make a break for it. McKay! Get moving!"

“No. Wait. Wait, wait, wait, I have an idea.”

Remny climbed over the equipment to the back of the cart. “We need to go, now!"

John glanced over his shoulder. Rodney was crouching over a huge coil of wire, wound about a long metal rod. He'd pulled an end free and was tugging the other end out of the centre of the coil.

"McKay?"

Another hail of bullets hit the side.

"Now!" Remny roared.

“No!” John recognised that Rodney was on the scent of a solution. “Give him a minute. Help me hold them off.”

“We don’t have a minute!"

“Why don’t you give the brawn a rest and let the brains take over for a change?” Rodney spat.

Remny growled.

“Could do with some help here, if you boys have finished arguing.” Morla fired twice and then ducked down at a hail of return fire.

The foreman pushed past Rodney and resumed his covering barrage. John joined him, seeing quick dashes, first from one side, then another, which brought men in ones and twos closer to the cart.

"McKay! Now would be good!"

"Wait! Yes, Yes, I think I can do this. I’m going to connect this battery pack to the coil of wire to make an electromagnet. My guess, hope, flash of brilliant intuition, call it what you will, is that the tunnel is sufficiently rich in naquadah and trinium for -"

"I get the picture!" Something smacked against the side of the cart and desperate fingers gripped the rim. John swung the butt of his rifle, there was a yell of pain and the fingers disappeared. "Rodney!"

"Just another few seconds!"

John smashed at another grasping hand, stood and fired directly down onto the enemy, feeling his hair parted by a bullet. He dropped to the floor of the cart.

"Now, Rodney!"

"Got it!"

The cart began to move.

"It's too slow!" John fired at a man running alongside and a bullet pinged off the metal near his shoulder. He flinched down. A ratcheting came from above his head and Morla's rifle boomed. 

They picked up speed.

"Ha! Science triumphs once again!" Rodney stood and stuck a finger up at their pursuers, ducking down sharply as a bullet whizzed over his head.

“We’re moving!” Venna looked up as the rocky ceiling scrolled faster. “How’re we moving?”

“This is an electromagnet,” said Rodney. “And the walls are rich in magnetic metals!”

John grinned. “Like a giant solenoid.”

Rodney grinned back.

Bullets still smacked into the sides of the cart, but their impact was much less until at last there was just an occasional dull ‘spang’ and then nothing at all. The cart moved on and the ceiling flashed past.

John stood up. "We're getting faster!" His hair lifted in the breeze, the sweat on his body drying rapidly.

“We’ve left ‘em behind!” Venna jumped up and down, clinging to the side of the cart. “Wooooo!”

Grins and back-slaps were exchanged. The cart sped on, rattling rhythmically over the joints in the rails. John stood at the leading end. He could see the tunnel, straight as a die before him, lit by a string of bare bulbs hung from the pit props. He looked behind and could see no sign of their pursuers. “Nice one, Rodney.” 

Turning his face to the front again, John let the warm breeze wash over him. Then he realised there weren’t many lights ahead. He squinted. Did the track end? “McKay.” The rhythmic rattle quickened as their speed increased still further.

“What?”

“McKay, we need to slow down.” The lights flashed past - one, two, three, quicker and still quicker. John felt his weight pushed to the right as the track began to curve left.

“Why?”

“It’s bending! The track!” John’s weight was all on his right leg, braced to stop his body sliding outward, away from the curve.

Rodney stood up next to him. “Oh. Oh, yes.” He dropped into the bed of the cart. “Right, I’ll disconnect this.”

“Rodney, hurry!” The cross-ties flashed beneath them in a continuous blur. The bend was sharp; too sharp.

“What’s happening?” Morla knelt up.

“Ow, dammit!”

“McKay!” John cast a hurried, anxious glance over his shoulder, then back to the bend, now hurtling toward them.

“It’s too hot, I can’t -” Rodney flinched and winced. The current had made the wires burning hot.

“Get out of the way.” Remny pushed him aside, and gripped the wire, grimacing as he tried to wrench it free.

“It’s too late!” John dropped and grabbed Venna. “Get down and brace yourselves!” He pushed hard against opposite sides of the truck with his back and his feet, his arms tight around the girl, one hand over her head.

The cart lurched and John was flung back against the side as it hurtled along on two wheels. It slammed back down on the track, with a screeching grate of metal, then lurched sideways again, so that John’s feet suddenly jerked up higher than his head. He pushed as hard as he could with his shoulders and legs, the cart smashed onto its side and then there was a furious rumbling and scraping and flying of bright, angry sparks. The cart banged and vibrated over the ground; it slammed into the rocky wall behind them and John's head impacted the metal side so that the sparks from the tortured metal bloomed inside his head as well as out. Then their rumbling, grating, clanging progress slowed, and finally stopped.

oOo

“Ow. Ow, ow, ow.” Rodney pushed at the coiled wire that had landed on his leg. “Ow, dammit!”

“McKay!”

John was at his side, quickly taking in the situation. He gripped one end of the metal core that ran through the heavy spool. Rodney could feel its heat, even through the insulation that covered all but the cut ends.

“Remny, give me a hand!”

There was a gasp of pain and then the foreman said. “Think my arm’s broke.”

“Here, I’ll help.” Morla, blood running down the side of her face, gripped the other end of the spool of wire and they picked it up and let it fall to one side.

Then John’s hands were pressing on his leg.

“Ow, no, leave it!”

“I have to see what the damage is, Rodney.”

“Well, it’s broken of course!” 

“They shoot grennets whose legs is broke,” said Venna helpfully. She had a bruise on one cheek but appeared otherwise unharmed.

John began to push up the leg of Rodney’s pants. Rodney slapped him away. “Ow!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, it’s my hands.” Rodney inspected his palms and fingers, which were striped bright red and beginning to swell in puffy, weeping burns. “The wires were red hot.”

It had seemed like such a good idea; the huge spool of wire around a metal core. Who wouldn’t want to make it into an electromagnet? Could he have rigged a simple off switch, in the heat of the moment? No, he decided, he couldn’t. And at least he’d got them away. He tentatively flexed his crushed leg. It hurt, but didn’t scream. There was another suppressed gasp from Remny.

“You’re right,” Morla said, as she examined the foreman’s arm. “This is broken.” She looked at each of them, assessingly. “And no spare clothes between us to make a splint. Oh well.” She began tearing off a strip of fabric from the lower edge of her bodice.

“Can you move?” John looked at Rodney, his brows pulled down, his mouth pinched. If they had to climb out of this hellhole, his ‘Leave no man behind’ philosophy was going to be severely tested.

Rodney pushed himself up on his elbows and regarded his leg. He waggled his foot, then tensed his muscles and tried to bend it. “I think it might just be bruised.”

“Let’s get you up then. We can’t stay here.” John slipped his shoulder beneath Rodney’s.

“They won’t catch us up any time soon. We must have left them miles behind. Ow.” He tentatively put weight on his leg; it didn’t like it. He gritted his teeth.

“Think you can stand?”

“Let go.” John moved away. Rodney took a limping step, then another. He could walk. He caught John’s look of relief. “I’m not going to be running marathons, though. And these?” He held out his hands. “Not so good if we have to climb. Or if I have to perform some delicate maneuvering of an intricate matrix of technology, which could easily happen.”

Venna jumped up and down next to him, her vigour undimmed by their crash. “Come on, then. Let’s go. How do we get out Mr Remny?”

The foreman supported his arm in its makeshift sling. “They’ve changed things a fair bit around here. Ancestors know where this line goes.”

“Maybe it’s another way out. We could follow it,” said Morla.

John shook his head. “I don’t like it. They’ll be after us soon enough.”

“No, we’ll go this way.” Remny pointed at the rough wall of the tunnel, outside the curve of the bend.

“Oh, yes, we’ll just walk through solid rock,” said Rodney, his leg throbbing. “Excuse me while I McGyver a phase modulator out of paperclips and a rubber band. Except we haven’t even got those.”

“There are splits in the rock we can get through,” said Remny, bluntly. “They’ve been trying to fill them in.” He nodded at the abandoned pick-axes and barrows to either side of the rails.

“What, those fissures? I’m sorry, but I got over trying to hammer a square peg in a round hole when I was playing with baby toys. There’s just no way.”

“You’ll fit. They widen out.”

“Says the man who hasn’t been this way since he was a kid.”

“Can it, McKay.”

“I just don’t think -” Rodney was interrupted by a volley of shots. “What? How are they here so quickly?”

John dragged him into the cover of the tipped-over cart.

“Doesn’t matter how,” said John. “We need to slow them down - give us a chance to get out of here.” He leant out and looked through the cart’s undercarriage, sighted down his rifle and fired. Shots were returned. “Remny, see if you can get yourself through.”

“No, I -”

“Don’t argue. You can’t hold a weapon, so get going. Rodney, you too.”

“I can shoot.” Rodney picked up a gun and took up a position lying behind an abandoned wheelbarrow. His hands raged fierily.

“Venna, help Remny,” said John; and then at the indrawn breath of protest: “Just do it!”

There was a distant rumbling, whining sound. Figures moved in the distance. Rodney fired at the same time as John. A man fell. Morla joined them, but more figures could be seen, jumping off a powered train and running down the track toward them. _Slow them down_ , John had said. _Give us a chance._ What could he do to stop the pursuit?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50972311562/in/dateposted-public/)

Rodney glanced over his shoulder. The wires had come free from the battery pack and the coils were loosened, the metal core lying slack in its tubular nest. He put down his weapon and pulled the battery and coil toward him, his sore hands forgotten. He hesitated, then leant the core with its swathe of wire up against the barrow. A bullet glanced off the upturned wheel, making it spin frantically. Rodney flinched, but then carried on. He took hold of one end of the core and moved it around, further loosening its surrounding wires. Then he crouched right down with his head nearly on the ground to look upward along the length of the core. John’s gun boomed out volley after volley. Morla stopped to reload.

“Get going Morla,” John said.

“No.” She ratcheted another round into the breech and sighted down the barrel.

Rodney checked one of the connections on the battery pack, then prepared the other end of the wire.

“What’re you up to, McKay?”

“Helping. Get down.”

“What?”

“Look, the accuracy on this thing isn’t going to be exactly pinpoint! Get down!”

Rodney was right. He’d hoped, when he connected the second terminal, that the charge would shoot the metal core directly into the ceiling. Instead it burst out of the coil, hurtled into the wall to hit a vertical prop, and then ricocheted off to smash into the ceiling further down the tunnel. It was good enough, however. The prop fell and landed over the track; rock followed it and more rock fell from the second impact. The rails were covered, the tunnel partly blocked. It would have to do.

“Good job, McKay. Now let’s get the hell out of this place!”

oOo

It was a tight fit and John winced as he forced himself through the narrow split in the rock. Morla would be okay, but he could hear that Rodney was struggling; John hoped the fissure widened out soon.

There was a pained grunt from ahead of him, a sharp intake of breath and a fervent, emphatic expletive.

“McKay?”

“Just - Just give me a second, here, so that I can either die in peace or pull myself together, if that’s not too much to ask!”

John waited, his bruised back pressed into the jagged edges of rock, his hands braced on the wall a scant few inches from his face, the rifle tucked awkwardly under one arm. “Let me give you a hand.”

“No. You need both your hands. Anyways, I’m ready for more extreme discomfort now. Off we go.”

Fabric scraped against rock, boots shuffled and Rodney cursed, both under his breath and aloud.

“Ow! Oh!”

“Rodney!”

“McKay?” John shuffled sideways as fast as he could, heedless of the scraping rock. Then the fissure widened out and there were leaping shadows amongst the sparkle of metallic ores; and Rodney, sprawled amongst dry, ancient stalagmites, with Morla bending over him. He sat up.

“I’m okay, I’m okay! Now I know how a cork feels.” He touched the tips of his fingers to the palm of his other hand. “And again I say, ‘ow’.”

“How’s the leg?” John looked ahead to where Remny and Venna were waiting, the foreman’s face glistening with moisture as he leant against the diagonal grain of the rock, his injured arm clutched to his chest.

“Still walkable on.” Rodney’s eyes flicked upward. This would not be a good place to be left, injured and alone.

“Okay, come on then. It’s only a matter of time before they work out where we’ve gone.”

Rodney took John’s arm and climbed unsteadily to his feet, but before John released him, their eyes met in silent communication. John nodded once and he knew that Rodney understood; it was both a reassurance and a promise. No one would be left behind. They would get out. They would get home.

They carried on. The fissure remained navigable; easily for Venna, painfully for Rodney, who was using his rifle as a walking stick, and for Remny, who was now unarmed except for the grenade that hung from his belt. John suspected Morla was in more pain than she was declaring. She'd wiped the blood away from the side of her face, but she probably had a concussion. She’d held onto her weapon, though.

“Stop.” The wavering light from Remny’s helmet halted and then settled into a steady, pale glow.

“What is it?” John glanced into the darkness behind him, his candle flame fluttering as he turned. His skin began to prickle.

“Ssh!”

They waited. The candles guttered and steadied. It was colder here and goosebumps broke out on John’s skin.

Remny grunted. “Maybe nothing.” His flame began to move forward again.

John’s skin still prickled, with his own growing sense of awareness and with the fact that men such as Remny, whose veins ran with the darkness of the deep places, did not get spooked by ‘nothing’.

The scrape of boot on rock, the huffing breaths of his companions, the occasional curse from Rodney: these were John’s anchors to reality as he crept along in the unknown depths. He heard nothing from Venna and remembered her bare feet. She was tough, stoic, light-hearted where others would quail, but a child shouldn’t have to grow up in the darkness and hardship of a mine.

Dragging weariness began to grow in John’s muscles and bones. The adrenaline had seeped away and scrapes and bruises and aches began to crowd upon him and he couldn’t begin to guess where he’d received each source of pain. From the work of mining? From the fight with the overseers? From their flight down into darkness, or from the shattering crash of the mining cart? The pains blended into a red roar in his head and John knew he needed to lie down and sleep. He carried on, blundering and stumbling in the dark to reach his goal, as they’d been blundering and stumbling through this world since they’d been kidnapped and abandoned here. 

Then there were sounds not of their making: a rapid tap-tap-tap of something hard against rock, a grating rasp like a blade against a whetstone. John’s heart surged and woke the flood of adrenaline once more. Ahead of him, his companions’ silhouettes sharpened as Remny turned and gestured for quiet. His eyes were shadowed beneath the peak of his helmet, but he remained gazing steadily behind him, his head tipped toward each of them in turn, one finger pressed hard against his lips, an insistence on absolute silence. Then he turned away and his movements became inchingly, agonisingly slow. His companions copied, a slow pantomime of fear behind him. As John moved forward, the dim light fell on an entrance to their left; low, so that he couldn’t see where it led, but with a strange debris of chips and bits of stone scattered about before it. His heart raced and he placed his footsteps with painstaking care. 

Because, he realised, the fragments were not stone at all, but shards of bone, broken and crushed by the teeth and claws of those creatures that dwelt far from the light: the Deep-diggers.

oOo

The sour ammonia stink at the entrance of the Deep-diggers’ lair turned Rodney’s stomach. He swallowed and breathed through his mouth, attempting to inhale and exhale slowly and gradually, the way Teyla had taught him to deal with anxiety. Sometimes he thought his way was better; to yell a torrent of abuse at anyone within earshot, wave his arms, stamp a lot and, preferably, run away from the source of the anxiety and toward the nearest food. Those tactics, however satisfying they might be, would not do in this case. _Rodents of Unusual Size._ What other delights did this planet have in store? Rodney copied the slow movements of his companions, stepping forward with as much concentration as if he were on a tightrope. He mustn’t stumble, mustn’t sneeze, mustn’t even let his injured leg betray him into a sudden move.

How much further would they have to go? Did Remny really remember these cracks and crevices in the rock? Was there a way out of this twisted labyrinth, other than back the way they’d come, where only capture or death awaited them?

The bitter tang faded from Rodney’s nostrils and he breathed normally again and felt just a little of the tension drain from his shoulders. They had enough to contend with without savage cave-dwelling beasts, thank you very much. He realised Remny had stopped again.

“There should be a vertical shaft somewhere nearby,” he said.

“Should be?” Rodney could hear the high tones of stress in his voice. _“Vertical?”_

“It’s here.” He sniffed. “I can smell it.”

Venna licked a finger and held it up, then nodded and wiped her finger on her tattered shirt.

Rodney took a deep sniff. There wasn’t any animal smell, that was all he knew. “So, what, there’s a ladder? How exactly are you planning on climbing that?”

John hovered at his shoulder. “Let’s just find it first, McKay. Then we’ll see.”

They moved on, until Rodney realised his trailing hands were running over a smoother surface, cut with the regular ridges of worked rock. He felt a stirring of air against his sweaty skin and the air temperature had dropped so that he shivered.

“Here we are.”

Remny was looking up at a shaft directly above his head. Rodney could see no ladder and it was too far to reach. He leant against the cold wall and eased out his aching leg.

John moved up alongside Remny and studied the problem. “There’s a ladder,” he said. “It just doesn’t come all the way down.”

“Oh, how convenient,” said Rodney.

“Venna, can you reach that if you climb up on my shoulders?”

The little girl nodded decisively. “Sure. Like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” said John. “I reckon I can reach that ladder if I jump, so I’m gonna follow Venna up.”

“I could reach that if you give me a boost,” Morla said. “Have to leave the gun, though.”

“Yeah, me too,” said John, his lips twisting with reluctance. “So, I’ll make sure you two get to the top, then I’ll come back and get McKay and Remny up.”

“How are you going to do that? He has a broken arm!”

John looked at Remny. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

Rodney sighed. John’s ideas were usually highly dangerous, but often effective.

Venna climbed onto John’s shoulders, reached up and pulled herself easily out of sight. A chirpy tune whistled back down the shaft in her wake.

Then her voice, magnified by the close tube, floated down. “There’s another tunnel. In the side.”

“Wait there, then,” John directed.

“I could get to the top, easy.”

“Wait there, Venna.”

“Okay.”

“Right, Morla, you’re up next.” John made a foothold with his hands and boosted her up into the shaft. She wobbled for a moment in his grasp, her hands gripping his hair, then she reached up and John flung her upward.

There was a smack of flesh on metal. “Got it.” Morla pulled herself up and disappeared, then a moment later, she called down. “I’m in.”

“McKay?”

Rodney flexed his burnt hands. Blisters had formed, which he was about to burst, painfully, and introduce infection from dirt and rust and heaven knows what. “Here we go, then.”

“Step up, and then on three I’ll boost you up,” said John. “Okay?”

“No,” said Rodney. “Since you ask, not okay. But, as usual, I’ll push through any suffering incurred.”

John grinned. “Spoken like a true hero, Rodney. Ready?” He offered his linked hands as a step.

Rodney looked up. He could just see the lower rung of the ladder. How he was going to pull himself up in the unlikely event that he managed to get a firm grip of it, he had no idea. It would take a good deal of core strength which he wasn’t sure he had. He flexed his hands a few times, bent and straightened his knees and took a few deep breaths.

“Ready.” He stepped into John’s hands, gripped his shoulders and pushed off the ground. John grunted and shifted slightly. Rodney wobbled.

“One, two.... Three!”

Rodney let go and flung up his arms, suddenly found his prize within reach and slapped his hands onto the rusting metal, curling his fingers round in a tight grip despite his pain. Strong hands were still pushing up on his feet from below, so he let go with one hand and pulled himself up to the next rung. He panicked for a moment as the support disappeared from beneath him and his legs kicked wildly in the air, then gritted his teeth and pulled harder, his shoulder muscles bunching and doing more work than he’d realised they were capable of. He curled his body tightly and drew his legs up beneath him; one foot found the bottom rung, then the other. 

Rodney paused for a moment, feeling relatively safe, and squeaked a breath of semi-hysterical laughter. He was clinging in the dark at the bottom of a mineshaft, to a rusty old ladder that was probably about to come away from the wall, and he had just classified his position as ‘relatively safe’. What did that say about his life?

“McKay?”

“I’m alright. Just…” He took a steadying breath. “Okay, okay, climbing now.”

The candlelight diminished as he climbed higher and he would have missed the side passage if it hadn’t been for a dirty, scraped hand reaching out into the dim glow.

“Here, Rodney.” Morla stuck her head out and he took her hand and stepped off the ladder.

Rodney called down to his friend. “I’m in.”

oOo

One man with a broken arm, three rifles and not to mention himself; ideally they’d end with all of the above at the top of the mineshaft, ready to make their final push to the outside world. _One step at a time,_ thought John.

“Hey, kid!”

“Yeah?”

“D’you think you can come get the weapons?”

“O’ course I can.” There was a metallic ringing and Venna appeared, crouching on the lowest rung, her hand held out. “Climb like a tigrit, me!”

John decided he didn’t need to know what a tigrit was. He held out one of the rifles by its barrel, Venna caught the stock and swung it round and up into the passage, extending her legs and letting go completely for a heart-sickening moment until she snatched, laughing, at a higher rung. She passed the rifle up and crouched down to take another.

What would it be like if Venna was his child – a laughing-in-the-face-of-danger, filthy, impish, small, female version of himself? It would certainly be terrifying. Though he set the feeling aside when he could, it was terrifying watching his friends and colleagues go into danger, especially when he’d sent them there himself; but to have a child, your own child, battle against the challenges of life, with sometimes nothing you could do to protect them – how hard would that be? It should have been comforting, to think that perhaps he’d never have to know; but it wasn’t.

The last rifle passed up, John turned to the stoic foreman.

“Go on, then,” said Remny. He turned away.

“What? You think I’m leaving you?”

“Makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. I don’t leave people behind.”

“It’s -”

“No, it isn’t. Stop wasting time.” John looked up at the ladder. “Look, I’m going to lean against the wall and you’re going to step into my hands and then up onto my shoulders. Don’t!” He held up a hand to stop Remny’s interruption. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, or it won’t hurt. I’ll steady you as best I can, I’ll get you up as high as I can, but you need to get hold of the ladder and bring your feet up. Then you need to get away from the lowest rung so that I can climb up to it and then I’ll help you get up the rest of the way.”

“It won’t hold our weight.”

“It won’t have to for long. I’ve done a fair bit of rock climbing. I think once I’m up I can straddle the shaft and take my weight off it completely.”

"Rock climbing. Huh." The foreman seemed unconvinced.

John ignored the man's doubt, and settled himself against the wall, his hands formed into a stirrup, his legs well braced, his raised eyebrow a challenge.

"Let's give it a go then," said Remny. His body stiffened. "And pretty sharpish too. That's a Digger coming or my name ain't Marokias Remny."

John snorted.

"Yeah, funny."

John's arms strained under the man's weight, the thick sole of Remny’s boot cutting into his fingers. His thigh muscles bunched and the rock dug into his back. Above him Remny gasped, wobbled and steadied.

In the darkness, something stirred; a pat and scratch of hesitant paws.

Remny stepped up onto his shoulder and John winced with the cutting, bruising weight. A heave and a wobble and his other shoulder was burdened. John began to push upward, straightening his legs, the rock grating into the skin of his back.

In the corner of his eye there was a shifting of dark against dark and the rapid, twitching sniff of a questing predator.

Remny gasped. "Got it." The booted feet dug into John's shoulders. "Just need a bit more height!"

Dim, brown candlelight barely lit the tunnel. The twitching paused and was replaced by a steady, threatening hiss.

John straightened his legs fully, giving Remny a few more precious inches. The weight disappeared. There was a wincing groan, boots scrabbled against rock, then a curse, followed by ragged, panting breaths.

"I'm up."

It came, and through his haze of terror, John saw chisel-like teeth, grey, naked skin and eyes blank with pale malevolence. Before he was aware of his own movement, he'd crouched and sprung up, arms reaching, arrow-like, for their target, his pounding heart soaring higher still, desperate to cling to life. One hand missed, the other grasped, the ladder groaned, something tore into his left calf. He pulled away, his elbow joint screaming a protest, then he had another hand on the ladder and he kicked his legs to swing, back and forth.

There was a thunderous report and a shot whistled past John's ear, then another.

He swung harder, bucking his whole body to gain momentum, ignoring the rending creak of twisting metal. Hot breath was on his ankles and a whisper of contact before his foot touched rock and he pushed hard, braced himself and climbed hand over hand up, until he was upright and could bring one foot across so that he straddled the shaft, the sides of his feet pressed into the undulating surface of the rock, his hands grasping tenuous holds.

Angry hissing came from below. John's leg muscles trembled, his torn calf burning with pain.

"Sheppard! Are you alright?"

Was he alright? "Kinda." His voice was hoarse, vocal cords still tight with horror. But he had a job to do. He climbed, finding holds through feel as much as sight, and put a hand against Remny's back to support his one-handed climb up the ladder. One foot, one hand, the other foot and then brace himself against the foreman's movement, then again, one foot, one hand and so on, until they reached the cross-tunnel. Remny stepped off the ladder. John stepped off too and slid to his knees.

"John? Are you hurt?"

Morla's brown eyes reflected the candlelight. "Just need a breather," he said.

oOo

“I’m upgrading them,” said Rodney.

“Huh?” His friend rubbed a hand across his eyes.

“The R.O.U.S.s. I’m calling them R.O.S.S.s: Rodents of Staggering Size. I could see its teeth from here – they were like shovels.”

“Yeah, the claws were pretty big too.” John groaned and pushed his way up the wall. “Time to go.”

Remny refused to climb any higher. "I'm safe enough here, for now. We were lucky with that." He gestured downward. "But there's a good way to climb yet and I'm not risking you or me."

"But -"

The foreman cut off John's protests. "No. Once you're up it's not far ‘til the old access shaft and you can be on your way.” He jerked his head at Venna. “This one'll get some of the lads and some ropes, unbeknownst to any of Kimmer's lot."

Venna agreed enthusiastically, but John wasn't happy; Rodney could tell.

"I'll go up first," said Venna, "and I can be off and back again before you lot have climbed to the top.

"No." John was firm. "We stay together."

"Oh. Well." Venna sniffed casually. "I s'pose you could _try_ 'n' stop me."

She whisked herself out of the tunnel and her giggles, and hands and bare feet slapping on metal receded above them.

John swung out onto the ladder.

"Let her go, Sheppard," said Rodney, wearily. His leg ached at the thought of the climb. "You go up with Morla. I might be a while."

"I'm not leaving you."

"You're _not_ leaving me. You're giving me a chance to rest my injuries before the final push. Anyway, I'm keeping the rifles to kill any marauding giant alien mice because I don't see how you're going to climb up there, even carrying just one. Off you go!" Rodney flapped his hands toward the tunnel.

John shook his head and huffed an exasperated breath. "Okay." He limped onto the ladder and as he disappeared upward, Rodney noticed the tear in his pants and the blood beneath; another injury to be taken care of.

He half held out a hand toward Morla. “Um. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“‘Course I will. And you too. See you in a minute.” She hesitated, one hand on the ladder, then ducked forward to give him a peck on the cheek and, with a flash of a smile, was gone.

Rodney held the stub of Remny’s candle out in the shaft to help light the way for his friends. A simmering snarl came from below. “Have you still got your grenade?”

The foreman replied, “Yeah, why?”

“Just in case.” He looked up again, to see Morla’s feet, faint and far above. They’d make it and then Venna would get some rope so they’d all get out; out into the fresh, cold air. Or the tainted, freezing, scouring air - Rodney really wasn’t fussy as long as he could see the sky.

The ladder rang with the impact of slowly-climbing boots. Rodney could still see the weak flicker of John’s candle. 

There was a sudden, metallic clunk and then a slow, rending creak that grew into the shriek of tortured metal and merged into a terrified scream. Rodney dived back into the tunnel as the ladder parted company with the wall and clanged and crashed its way down the shaft in a crescendoing series of hollow, ringing booms. It stopped and Rodney’s heart nearly stopped too. He stuck his head out and held the candle up as high as it would go. He could see nothing, not even the faintest flicker from John’s helmet. He leant out further.

“Can you see them?”

“I don’t -” Rodney began. “Yes! I see them. I think.”

Two points reflected the faint light, waving and kicking. John’s voice floated down. “Hold on! Morla, hold on.” The voice was grinding and strained; they were in trouble. And Rodney could do nothing. The stub of the candle sent hot wax dripping over his fingers. The flame guttered. “Dammit!”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50971515638/in/dateposted-public/)

He retreated into the tunnel just as the candle went out. “Give me another! You’ve got another, haven’t you?”

“I have, but it’ll take a second. Here, reach in my pocket, I can’t strike a light one-handed.”

Rodney groped forward until his hands reached Remny’s outstretched arm, dreading and cringing to hear, at any moment, Morla’s desperate, frightened cries change to a falling scream. He took the flint and striker from Remny’s pocket. Then he heard a different voice. Was that John? No.

“Take the rope.”

A powerful beam of white light swept across the tunnel entrance.

“Take it, Mr Travven. You have no choice.”

It was Kimmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. I almost feel like I have to apologise for that little turn of events - all that effort, only for John and Morla and Venna to be captured by that tricky villain, Kimmer. But what about Rodney and the foreman, hiding in the tunnel below? Find out on Friday!


	15. Chapter 15

Kimmer was right. John had no choice. 

The ladder had torn away from the rock and John had taken a wild swing at one of the supports sticking out of the wall and simultaneously snatched at Morla's wrist. His helmet had fallen off and they were left in complete darkness, but John had held on to both the support and his companion with a vice-like grip, and straining, hauled her up to cling alongside him. And then there was the stark, white beam of a flashlight, the triumphant voice and a rope that he had no choice but to take.

He allowed himself and Morla to be pulled up, hand over hand - a couple of helpless fish. Had Venna escaped? No. Sprawling on the lip of the shaft, John saw small, filthy bare feet and followed them up to Venna's furious, tear-streaked face, her arms held in a cruel grip by one of Kimmer's men.

“Ah, Mr Travven. And the delightful Mrs Peel.”

Kimmer had the gloating villain act down cold, John had to admit. He blinked against the harsh, white light of the lantern and didn’t respond. The barrels of several weapons were trained on himself and Morla, the eyes behind them cold and watchful.

“But where is Mr Peel? And the ever-resourceful Mr Remny?”

“Deep-diggers got ‘em,” said John. “They’re dead.” 

“Ah, well, these things happen. At least we have two of you. And this irritant child. Now, what to do with you? It seems hardly worth the trouble of pulling you up, just to dispose of you immediately.”

“Hefferen’ll come looking for us.”

“Ah, I think not.” Kimmer took off his glasses and drew a pure white handkerchief from his breast pocket. “I think not.” He began to wipe the lenses fastidiously. “You see, Mr Hefferen has had little to do with the running of this mine for some time.”

“It belongs to him.”

“Yes. Yes, indeed it does, on paper.” He replaced his glasses and lowered his head to look over them at John, his lip curling slightly in distaste. “But there are others more powerful than him and with more… shall we say ‘influential’ connections?”

“The Wraith.”

Kimmer nodded. “All roads lead to our friends the Wraith if one is to achieve any degree of comfort in this world. And they have been kind enough to provide the technology which has allowed us to follow a rich seam of naquadah and trinium far deeper than we would have otherwise been able.”

“They’re not kind.”

“No. Perhaps that was the wrong word. But their price is well within the means of my employer.”

“Who’s really employing you? And what do you mean, price?”

“No. No more questions. I think it’s time you left and, I believe, your transport awaits.” Kimmer flicked a finger at his men, who grabbed John’s arms and bound them tightly behind his back, doing the same with Morla and Venna.

John kicked and struggled. “Let the kid go! She can’t hurt you!”

“She has earned her place at your side,” said Kimmer dismissively.

John pulled away from his captors and barreled into Kimmer, who stumbled back against the wall. Then the white light of the lantern split and shattered and John found himself face down on the ground. His ringing, pain-wracked head was jerked up, rough hands pulling at his hair.

“One more piece of information I _will_ give you.” Kimmer spat the words, his small, white hands brushing angrily at the fabric of his suit. “As well as giving the Wraith their share of the rich products of this mine…” He sneered down at John, as he straightened his tie. “We also supply them with slaves.” 

Kimmer nodded sharply and then there was black and red agony and then nothing.

oOo

Rodney felt sick to his stomach. And he would have been, too, if he’d had more to eat in the long, dark however-many hours they’d been wandering about in this godforsaken hole of a hellish, screwed-up, excuse for a… He wanted to punch something, but there was only the hard, black rock. All their efforts, all their long scrambling about in the dark and this was how it ended: his friends taken and himself and the foreman injured and trapped. Frustration and fear sang in his blood as if his whole body were screaming. Rodney took a deep breath, relaxed his clenched fists and let the air slowly seep out of his lungs.

“Slaves,” said Remny.

They’d lit a fresh candle so that once more the yellow glow shone out from above the peak of the foreman’s helmet.

“Slaves. And not a damn thing we can do about it.” Rodney sat down, heedless of the dirt, because he was pretty sure he was as dirty as he’d ever been or as it was possible to get.

“They’ll go in the hoppers down to Gorston, along with the metal.”

Rodney remembered the hopeless eyes of the slaves he’d seen waiting on the platform; their ragged clothes, their chains, the way they’d huddled close together as if trying to leach scraps of comfort from each other. He imagined John amongst them. And Morla and Venna.

It seemed a long time ago and a world away that he and John had sat in Hefferen’s luxurious ranch and planned to be deliberately taken, as the only foreseeable way off this rock of a planet. And, seeing the slaves at Gorston, Rodney had been determined to find a different way. Now it looked like John, at least, had no choice. 

“We’d best set about finding a way up, then,” said Remny.

“What? We can’t go up there! There’s no ladder. I couldn’t and you certainly couldn’t!”

“No, but I reckon this’ll take us somewhere.” Remny gestured behind him to the narrow scrape of a tunnel. “And if it doesn’t, there’s still this.” He reached down and gave the grenade hanging from his belt a flick. It wobbled to and fro and then came to rest.

Rodney regarded the grenade. He felt a spark of hope flare in his chest; although, he reflected, the grenade had better do more than spark.

oOo

There was cold and pain and his body was moving; shaking and vibrating, so that he wondered if he was shivering with fever.

A small, frightened voice spoke. “Is he dead?”

“No.” Something touched his brow. He moaned. “No he’s not dead, but they were two cruel hard blows, one after another.”

John wanted to agree wholeheartedly with this statement, but his brain wasn’t connected to his mouth. His stomach felt like it might be, though. He retched and felt himself manoeuvred onto his side.

“Yuk.”

“He can’t help it.”

“I know, but still. Yuk.”

John’s stomach decided it was empty enough. He sagged and was turned again onto his back. His head rested on something soft and he looked up but couldn’t see anything.

He jerked and juddered. Was he having a fit?

“That’s the switch after the station,” said the small voice. “Where the lines split. We’ll be at Gorston soon.”

“Yes.”

“If they hadn’t of chained us, we could’ve jumped out.”

There was a metallic clanking. “Well, they did.”

The voices stopped and there was just a rhythmic, swaying rumble. The pain in John’s throbbing, lightning-filled skull told him to contribute toward conversation with an agonised groan.

“Ssh.” Something cool and soft brushed lightly over his cheek.

“Morla?” The small voice sounded smaller than ever.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t want to be no slave.”

“No.”

oOo

Remny had John’s touch with a hand grenade; the teasing smirk as he pulled the pin, the tense excitement as he held the live explosive, knowing exactly how long he had before it would blow apart in his hand, and throwing it, with pinpoint accuracy, at exactly the right moment. Except Rodney had had to pull the pin and then he’d dived headfirst, back down the old ventilation shaft and crouched, arms shielding his face.

Stone chips and dust had rained all about him and he’d coughed and choked in the plumes of pulverised rock; but it had worked. They’d stumbled up the sloping shaft and out from the black of the mines to the black of the winter’s night.

Rodney shuddered hard as he followed Remny, skirting the edge of the slag pit and furtively bypassing the refinery, then round behind the man engine head to a back entrance leading to the kit room. They put on extra clothes. He didn’t know whose they were or care. Layer upon layer to insulate him from the searing cold, which was all the worse for having been down in the heat of the mine for so long. He splinted Remny’s arm, and the man was as stoic as the rock that he mined, his eyes narrowing in his filthy face, but no sound escaping his lips.

Rodney sagged on the hard wooden bench. “What now?”

“Now I disappear,” said Remny. “Kimmer’ll be straight after me if he gets wind I’m still about. But he won’t.”

“Where will you go?”

“Into the town. There’s plenty’ll have me, and maybe once I’ve had a few words with the lads, we’ll be taking this mine back for Mr Hefferen.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Rodney rubbed his eyes. Exhaustion and worry dragged his shoulders down.

“You’re coming with me.”

“No. I need to go after my friends.”

“Right enough. But not tonight you don’t. We’ll find somewhere to hole up and you can be away in the morning.”

“To Teksa’corani. To the Gate.” It should have been exciting, to finally be on his way, to finally be near to the Gate, to have a chance of going through it; of going home. But it wasn’t.

“Come on, Mr Peel. Food, sleep, then you’ll be ready to take on all comers.”

Rodney felt a smile flicker over his lips. “It’s not Peel.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“It’s McKay.” He looked up at the mine foreman and felt his resolve harden. Even hungry and tired and battered and sore, even alone and far from home - he would do this. He would rescue his friends and he and John would go through the Gate and everything would be fine. It would.

Rodney stood up, fully aware of his weakness and pain, but determined nevertheless. “I am Dr Meredith Rodney McKay, Chief Science Officer of the Ancient City of Atlantis, known throughout two galaxies for my incredible feats of scientific genius!” Lines from movies ran in his spinning head and he couldn’t decide between _‘and I will have my vengeance!’_ or _‘I’ll never go hungry again.’_

Remny interrupted his dramatic moment. “Come on, then, Dr Mack. We’d best be off out of here.”

“Oh. Yes.”

They headed for the worker’s entrance but were halted by a blood-curdling shriek from the yard. Rodney was tempted to ignore it, but Remny turned and led him back through the racks of clothes belonging to the current shift and they peered around the threshold of the yard entrance.

A blood-red glow from the refinery lit the snow and cast blue shadows in its wake. Mrs Kimmer stood in the light, her face distorted with anger.

“Don’t deny it!” she raged. “I heard you! I heard your men!”

“You heard nothing, woman. Nothing that you would understand.” Kimmer’s face was turned away from Rodney, but his tone was dismissive, demeaning.

“I heard you, Osta. You’ve been sending people to the slave trains and now you’ve sent that auditor, Travven, and that young Mrs Peel and one of the children that shouldn’t have been working down the mine in the first place! It’s wicked, that’s what it is! Wicked!”

“Oh get back to your stitchery! You know nothing of my affairs.”

“Yes, yes I do. And I’m done with keeping quiet. All along I thought you were the victim and that it was Mr Remny who was the villain. Now I know the truth!”

“Really? And what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll tell! I’ll tell Mr Hefferen.”

“That you won’t.” Kimmer flicked a finger and figures loomed out of the refinery.

Rodney looked at the foreman. “We have to do something!”

“You can’t threaten me!” Mrs Kimmer reached into the lacey bag that hung from her wrist and drew out a tiny pistol. Her hand shook as she levelled it at her husband.

He laughed. “You won’t fire that. And you forget, _my dear_. I know how poor your eyesight is. Even were you to fire, you wouldn’t hit me.”

“I would! I would!”

“Give it to me, foolish woman.” He moved toward her, his hand held out.

The small weapon fired, an unimpressive pop of sound.

Kimmer laughed again. “See? I’m perfectly safe.” In a few swift strides he swiped the gun from his wife’s hand and twisted her arm up behind her. “Another for the slave trains?” he sneered. “Or perhaps, just an accident on the man engine.”

A rifle ratcheted. Kimmer’s head turned toward the shadows, where the office windows were dark.

A cold voice spoke, saying with simple confidence, “ _I_ won’t miss.” The rifle spat fire into the night and Kimmer fell dead, a neat hole drilled in his forehead. 

Mrs Kimmer shrieked and backed away. Kimmer’s men moved forward, threateningly.

“Don’t bother.” Yenet, the meticulous administrator, stepped into the red light. “Leave now, or you’ll go the same way as him.”

“I think we’ll stay,” said one of the men, raising his weapon. “Doesn’t seem like one woman with a gun could stop all of us.”

“I won’t have to.” She glanced toward the archway, then looked back at the men and smiled, grimly. “They’re coming.”

Through the red glow and the darkness of the arched entrance, Rodney saw swaying pinpoints of light that grew, slowly. Then, up from the mean streets of the mining town, lit with yellow lantern light, men and women came, and they flowed in a steady, determined stream through the archway, the few lantern-bearers far outnumbered by those carrying weapons. Then the worker’s door opened behind Rodney and he and the foreman moved aside as more miners flooded through.

Kimmer’s men were quickly surrounded. Their rifles thudded onto the hard-packed snow.

“Go,” said Yenet to Kimmer’s men. “All of you.”

The men didn’t move. They all looked to the one who had spoken before. “You won’t get away with this,” he said. “The masters’ll put you back in your places, or more likely send you all to the scaffold.”

Yenet didn’t respond. The red furnace-glow cast deep shadows on her set features.

The leader jerked his head at the archway, and slowly Kimmer’s men began to move, the townspeople's weapons tracking them closely as they passed out of the yard and away down the hill.

Then Yenet addressed the crowd of mine-workers. “You know me,” she said. “You trust me to do the right thing. I’m guessing that’s why you came, when I sent for you.” There was a general rumble of approval and a few cheers. “There’s a great deal to be done,” the administrator continued. “We’ll need to have all those disloyal to Mr Hefferen out of lower H. And for the time being, if no one has any objection, I’m going to be running things round here, at least until we find out what’s happened to Mr Remny.”

Rodney found himself, along with the foreman, being pushed forward into the light.

Yenet smiled, grimly. “We’ll make that me _and_ Mr Remny, then. We’ll sort things out. With your help, we’re going to take back this mine for ourselves and for Mr Hefferen. We’re going to take back your right to earn a decent living, a fair living, so that this will be a place that treats its workers with dignity; with humanity.”

The crowd dissolved, at that point, into roars of approval, cheering and, in Rodney’s opinion, far too much back-slapping. A large contingent set off, armed, down the man engine, presumably to do battle with those remaining in lower H. The rest set about having an impromptu party. Rodney didn’t see what happened to Kimmer’s body. He saw Mrs Kimmer being hustled away by an enfolding flurry of women and then he began to wonder exactly how long it had been since he’d had a proper meal; and then it seemed like the strange red and blue snow was a good place to sit, or even lie down.

The next thing he knew he was sitting in front of a fire, being plied with hot drinks and food, and soon after that, he didn’t know how, he was in a warm bed. And even though his thoughts tried to drag him toward his friends, who had almost certainly had no food or drink or warm bed, his body and mind were too tired to take any more. He slept.

oOo

Beneath dragging eyelids, John viewed a strange, striped world. People, young and old crowded together, their hollowed, anxious faces and curled, defensive bodies cut across by black and white slashes. For a moment he wondered what planet he was on that the inhabitants were zebra-striped, and then he recalled another face, seen through bands of iron, and he thought he might be back in the cell in Gulderren, with others waiting for the scaffold and the cull. But no, those stripes had been vertical; these were horizontal, and they played across the gaunt faces with a rhythmic sway.

His lids drooped and there was blackness again, but a voice recalled him.

“John?”

He thought for a moment, that it was Lara’s voice. Something shifted beneath him; something warm, where the rest of him was cold. He forced open his eyes once more, and a pain shot through his head at the stark whiteness of the stripes.

He opened his mouth, but his voice emerged as a husky creak.

“I’m sorry, there’s no water.”

Morla. It was Morla, and, as he struggled to move his gritty eyes, there was the Venna, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped tightly around them. Lara was far away and he remembered the mine and their capture, but not much between there and being hauled out of the hopper onto a station platform, where there had been men who woke his senses to searing pain by sloshing burning disinfectant liberally over his body and enraging the nerves in his leg and on his scalp and numerous other cuts and scratches he’d picked up over the course of an eventful day.

He’d only had on his pants and boots down the mine, but now he seemed to be wearing a shirt; a rough, scratchy garment, whose pungency outdid even the lingering bitterness of the disinfectant. And he was on a slave train, the horizontal slats of the car casting stark shadows over the hopeless prisoners within. Maybe the slats could be loosened, though. Maybe they represented a chance at freedom, rather than imprisonment.

John flexed his fingers and felt the prickle of straw. He pushed down, but failed miserably to raise his body.

“Lie still.”

“Help me up.”

“You’re better off down there. There’s nothing you can do.”

“‘scape.”

Something clinked, dully. “Look, John.”

He blinked at the chains Morla held up. He twitched a leg. Something hard dug into his skin and pressed against his ankle bone and there was a heavy dragging sound of metal links. He groaned.

“McKay?”

“We don’t know.”

John allowed his eyelids to close. 

He was chained and destined for slavery. He’d left his friend down the mine. He was injured and concussed, weak and desperately thirsty. In his muddled brain, the hope of the city, of Teksa’corani rose; because that way lay the Gate and home. But John's heart tore within him because he'd left his friend behind.

The regular rattle and sway of the train triggered the old, familiar questions from which all action plans start: 

_What do we have? What do we need? What do we have? What do we need?_

But John had nothing and needed everything; he had no plan and lacked the clarity of mind to formulate one, even if he had had more intel about his destination and the likely forces he’d be up against. 

For now, the only thing to do was rest, and sleep if he could.

John let his eyes close and allowed dark thoughts to descend to the lower recesses of his mind; then he drifted into memories of golden lights in brown eyes and the lingering smell of baked turgits.

oOo

Rodney wondered who had undressed him and put him to bed the previous night, during his hypoglycemic haze; although he thought perhaps it was better not to know. Rested and refreshed, if not particularly optimistic, he’d come down the stairs of Mrs Kimmer’s little house, to find the place awash with female zeal, much of it directed at himself.

The lady of the house had nothing to do but sit by her parlour fire and oversee the proceedings, while around her, copious quantities of latcha were brewed, immense batches of baked goods appeared on a regular basis from the kitchen, and the whole affair of Kimmer’s fall from power and the miners’ dramatic coup was endlessly discussed, worked-over and otherwise analysed, amid many a ‘Didn’t I always say…?’ and embellished by the wise shaking of heads and disapproving tuttings.

Rodney had forgotten that he’d told Remny his real identity. He was quickly reminded, however, by the flurry of respectful 'Dr McKays' directed at him as he sat by the fire opposite Mrs Kimmer, and the constant urgings to take more latcha or another cake. The older women seemed inclined to mother him and the younger to cast large-eyed glances and carefully demure smiles in his direction and then flit out into the hallway to giggle and peep round the doorway.

Good food and drink were always welcome when one had a deficit to make up, but Rodney was soon feeling the urgency of his situation. As soon as he expressed a desire to leave the mining town, he found that, along with the disappointment of the younger ladies, there began an efficient equipping procedure, so that soon his possessions had been brought up from the inn, along with John’s and Morla’s things, and he’d been given a basket full of enough provisions to keep him luxuriously fed for the few days it would take to reach Teksa’corani.

He used the speaker in Kimmer’s office to contact Hefferen and, having apprised him of the situation, had only to present himself at the railway station to be taken on the next train to Gorston and from there on the express to Teksa’corani, with a whole compartment to himself and an attendant to see to his every need.

This would have been enjoyable, if he hadn’t kept thinking about the very different conditions his friends were likely to have experienced.

Rodney gazed out of the curtained window at the barren landscape. His compartment was on the right, or south side of the train and looked out over the snow-covered plain. The land undulated gently, but there were no significant hills at all; only the curve of the planet and the lowering clouds and flurries of snow preventing a direct line of sight to Free Weston, Tychor, Symona and even to Gulderren far in the south.

To Rodney’s left, across the narrow service corridor, he would have been able to see the hills, rich in naquadah and trinium, rising to white, cloud-wreathed peaks. He couldn’t see them, though, because he’d pulled the concertina-like leather blinds down, to avoid the gaze of passing travellers.

He recalled his conversation with Lorentik Hefferen and the man’s incredulity over the outrageous scam that was being carried out in his mine. Rodney had been more immediately concerned with his friends.

“They’ll be taken to the citadel,” Hefferen had said.

“They won’t go through the Gate straight away, will they?”

“I don’t think so. It’s not something that I have anything to do with, but I think they send a regular contingent of slaves, when they’ve had a contribution from all the districts.”

“Contribution.” Rodney swallowed and his face flushed. “It’s sickening.”

“Yes.”

“You should have done something sooner! How can you live like this? Knowing that people are culled or taken as slaves? Not just a few, but a lot! Thousands! And the people on this world that live in poverty when there’s no need!”

There was a pause. The receiver crackled. “You’re right, of course. I’ve let it happen for too long. Because I was scared for my family. And myself.”

“Yes and see where it’s got you! Do you even know who’s been liaising with the wraith and taking the best part of the yield of your mine?”

“I have my suspicions, which I’ll tell you about when you arrive.”

“Did you get the plans? Of the citadel?”

“I did. I’m not sure how useful they’ll be.”

“Why not?”

“They look pretty old. There’s a lot been built around the tower and the Gate platform since they were drawn.”

“Doesn’t matter, as long as the central area’s the same, and my guess is you’d have a job remodelling Ancient architecture.” Rodney had pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Look, is there a faster train, that’ll get me there before John? Maybe I can use your authority to have them released.”

“There’s an express, but it’ll do you no good. My authority wouldn’t be enough and the slave cars get taken to an underground depot.”

“Underground?”

“Yes, so they’re not seen. Then, I’ve been told, they’re unloaded and walk beneath the city to a secret entrance to the citadel.”

“Yes, well.” Rodney’s eyes had flown to the window and up to the iron grey sky. “They did that in Ancient Rome. I hope there’s no arena with hungry lions.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Hefferen had said he’d meet Rodney at the station, which Rodney supposed would have to be good enough for now. Perhaps Hefferen would be able to get him into the citadel and then nothing and no one would stop him from finding out how the place was run and getting into the system and forcing it to work for him.

Rodney stretched out his bruised leg, winced and turned himself sideways so that he leant against the inner window blind. He carefully lifted his leg and stretched it out along the seat. The landscape sped past; white and grey and faded parchment-brown, miles upon endless miles.

Where were John and Morla and Venna? Had they been given food or drink? Were they cold or in pain? Were they closer to the city than he? Or had he unknowingly passed them by, as his train had passed many slower goods trains, rumbling along on the parallel line. 

The girl, Venna, had been as annoying as any child, obviously; he didn’t know why more people didn’t just admit that. But over the last few years, his irritation had been tempered and diffused, because kids now made him think about Madison or little Torren and then he couldn’t help but see them as people, as individuals in their own right, which was always a mistake when you didn’t want to get involved with messy emotions.

Then he started thinking about Jennifer, when he’d been determined not to, because although he missed her and she’d be worried about him, he wasn’t sure if he missed her enough or if she’d be worried about him in the right way. And then he felt bad, because he knew that, in keeping a careful control over his diet, she was only looking after his interests and perhaps he shouldn’t feel a small thrill of guilty pleasure whenever he ate anything of which she wouldn’t approve. It crossed his mind that he’d also enjoyed feeling free to share negative opinions, rather than being gently steered away or suppressed with soothing words and faint, or overt embarrassment. And there was the fact that, when giving the Penfell creep a piece of his mind back at that Godforsaken waystation, or protesting against their initial status as prisoners in the Hefferen household, Morla hadn’t tried to smoothe him into false politeness, but had backed him up.

He sighed and lifted the cloth that covered the basket of food. He cared about Jennifer and she cared about him, and now perhaps the same could be said of Morla, but to what extent and to what effect or purpose? This, Rodney concluded, ripping apart a bread roll and forcing a large piece of cheese within, was what came of having time to think and not enough data to think any useful thoughts.

The white and grey and brown blurred before his eyes.

He ate his bread and cheese and then his head began to nod with the movement of the train.

oOo

They’d been given water and a hard crust of bread each. Morla said that had happened twice before, but John didn’t remember. Sometimes when he woke up, the stark snow-reflected light cast shadow-bars on the vague faces around him, and sometimes there was just the darkness and the cold and the constant jolting and clattering. Then, when the faces had once more brightened into chiaroscuro patterns, the train had stopped, probably to take on water and fuel rather than for their benefit, but even so, the door had slid open and they’d been ordered to get out into the searing cold.

John had made it out of the car and had taken a few limping steps, stiff with injuries old and new, before his head spun and he found himself getting up close and personal with the snow. For a moment the snow had been soothing on his aching head, but then the cold began to seep deep into his bones and he’d been grateful when he’d heard the clink of his ankle chain being disconnected, and he felt himself picked up and then the wooden planks and scraps of straw were under him once again. He’d crawled to a corner and the next thing he knew the car was full again and his head was resting on Morla’s lap.

There were tears on her cheeks.

"He got out. He's coming," John croaked, as much to reassure himself as Morla.

She nodded and attempted a smile.

Even if John found a way, even if he had a chance to go through the Gate, to get home, he couldn't go without Rodney. Could Rodney have made it out of the mine? Could he and Remny have found a way? John told himself that, if any two people could find their way out of such a situation, it would be one man bred to the darkness and another who lived by his intellect and his leaps of reasoning and his sheer, bloody-minded, irascible determination. 

The train ground on. At last John’s head began to ache marginally less, which was good because he’d been worried that there was something really wrong that he wouldn’t be able to recover from. He found he was able to sit up.

“You feeling better?” Morla’s face was pale, her temple bruised and there were still flakes of dried blood clinging to her hair. 

“Yeah. Getting there,” he said. “Don’t suppose there’s any water?”

She shook her head.

John looked around. There were children other than Venna, he realised, some of them very young. “You’d think they’d look after us better if they want useful slaves.”

“They want us quiet. Maybe there’ll be more food and drink when we get where we’re going.”

“Yeah, because wraith hospitality is always five star.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50982442782/in/dateposted-public/)

The other occupants of the car didn’t say much. Occasionally a child cried and was comforted, but mostly the people were isolated, each in their own pool of misery. An old woman lying near to John looked at him incuriously and then her gaze drifted away. One blank-eyed man rocked, increasing the natural motion of the car, a last-ditch resort into the comfort of infancy. The light flickered as they passed through shadows, the white stripes strobing on and off. John closed his eyes again.

“I reckon we’re nearly there,” said Venna. “Smells different.”

There was a sniff. “Bit like Free Weston, where they had all those chimneys,” agreed Morla.

John opened his eyes. The rattle and sway of the car had slowed, the wheels ground and grated as they passed over turnouts where the lines split and crossed. They slowed and came to a halt and there was a rattle and juddering from the front end as the coupler was released. The roar of the train retreated, a different whining noise approached and with a bang and a jolt they were picked up and on the move once more.

The white stripes dimmed, disappeared, briefly became the yellow of artificial light and then went out again. They travelled for a time in darkness. Then there was dim yellow light once more and they shuddered to a halt. The door rolled back.

John was worried that his legs wouldn’t hold him as he slid down onto the smooth, stone surface. They felt weak and watery, and he suspected his leg wound was infected. His head still ached with a dull throb, and he was stiff with cold and strain, but he didn’t fall. He helped some of the younger children down. Venna jumped out and landed with the feral grace of a wildcat.

It was like a subway platform, but with none of the purposeful vibe of rushing commuters or the wonder and slight confusion of tourists. The walls were blank, concrete grey, devoid of markings or directions, or the litter of colourful advertising, full of consumer goods one didn’t want or need, but which John felt a sudden yearning for, just for the normality.

The chains linking one slave to the next were shortened and they were ordered forward. They progressed in a shambling, shuffling column along a starkly squared-off passage, lit by occasional dim, recessed lights. Escape was impossible at this moment, but nevertheless, John tried to take in as many details as he could, storing them up for future opportunities. 

The guards were armed with wraith stunners. There were three, one leading the way, one in the middle and one bringing up the rear. The cuff on his left ankle had a ring attached through which the long chain was threaded; the lock was fastened to the lead slave's ankle, so that if it were undone, all would be released. Somehow each individual’s ankle cuff could be unfastened. John hadn’t tested the cuffs for weakness, or the long, linking chain itself, and he cursed the blows that had left him concussed and confused for so long.

To begin with, John felt better as they walked, despite his injuries; his leg wound throbbed and he still felt light-headed, but he could feel his circulation waking up after the long sluggish days of inactivity. Venna was ahead of him, Morla behind. They stopped for the guards to give a password and the heavy iron door ahead was opened.

John nudged his foot into Venna’s. Her head turned.

“We’ll get out of this,” he said and mustered up his best attempt at a smile.

She nodded and smiled back, her shadowed blue eyes hard with determination. He turned round to Morla.

“No talking!” A guard lifted his stunner and aimed it in John’s direction. He doubted they’d stun him, because then the ragged column would be immobilised until he was unlinked. Nevertheless, he didn’t risk a word to Morla; a stunning on top of his concussion could finish him.

John’s spirits began to fall as they walked. His initial spurt of energy had gone and there was a hissing in his ears; lack of food or drink, he thought. The hissing grew and random images rolled and tumbled in his aching head; the Gateroom on Atlantis, flying a Jumper, the Ancient ship Aurora, and the chair, all those years ago in Antarctica when he’d first found out about aliens and Stargates, and all the stuff that had resided, up to then, between the covers of a comic book or in the comfortable darkness of the movie theatre.

He kept moving - one foot in front of the other, the clank of his section of chain merging with the cross-rhythms of other dragging feet. 

He kept moving - but the hissing had increased to a buzz and his empty stomach heaved and rolled. John swallowed and breathed slowly through his nose, his lips pressed tightly together. It couldn’t be much further and then, if nothing else, he could lie down and let the darkness come.

Onward, and the walls wavered about him and he thought their colour had changed; grey brutalism replaced by a soft shade of pale, duck-egg blue that was achingly familiar. And ahead, through squinting, tearing eyes, was that a panel of those little horizontal lines of light? They danced and spun as he came closer and the buzzing increased to a roar.

Behind him, Morla cried out. He felt her touch on his shoulder.

One of the guards shouted and the sound distorted and magnified and echoed around his head. 

Then the lights exploded in a shower of sparks. John yelled and cursed with pain and fell to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, our hapless pair are onto new, separate adventures, neither one knowing if the other is safe. But finally John has reached the City of Teksa’corani and Rodney isn’t far behind - surely they’ll be able to make it through the Gate and back to Atlantis!
> 
> Thank you for all your wonderful comments - keep on reading!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We left John having finally reached Teksa’corani, but chained in a line of slaves and collapsing to the floor of the subterranean corridor! What’s wrong with him? And will Rodney make it into the citadel and find a way to get them both through the Gate?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50996502702/in/dateposted-public/)

John’s hands dug into his scalp and he pulled at his hair, groaning, his jaw clenched tight, his mouth contorted with agony and confusion. The sharp voice of a guard and Morla’s hands on his shoulders only contributed to his absolute sensory overload and he curled himself into a tight ball. A cascade of images poured into his head, jumbling together in a frenzied tangle of colour and sound and, as his body curled more tightly still, he desperately wrenched a part of his mind away to find an empty place where he could make sense of what was happening.

But there were no empty places. There was nowhere to hide. John tried to acknowledge each image, each passing thought and then let them go, as Teyla had taught him, but there were far too many, far too fast. And at last all he could do was scream with both body and mind, scream for the flooding, spilling torrent of impressions to STOP!

They stopped.

John's knees hurt and he was cold and Venna crouched in front of him, her face white, her lip trembling. A dim buzzing remained in the back of his mind.

"Get up! Now!"

"John?"

He felt a sharp prod as the guard encouraged him with the butt of his stunner.

"Leave him alone, he's sick!"

The stunner swung round to point at Morla. John snatched at the muzzle and pushed it away. "I'm fine." He got one foot beneath him and began to push himself shakily to his feet.

"Get moving, then!"

"But -" Morla reached out to John once more.

"Enough! Move!"

John shook his head slightly at Morla. He turned away and joined in the shuffling progress once more.

And as he walked he probed the dim buzzing, ever so gently. It certainly didn't need any encouragement, leaping crazily to life in a flurry of offers and excitement, so that he stumbled again.

John smiled. When he was about ten - a gangling bundle of energy and, he acknowledged, mischief - he remembered visiting a ranch. Where it was or why he and his family were there he couldn’t recall. They had arrived, he had got out of the car and immediately he’d been knocked flying - completely winded - only able to lie on the ground, as he was surrounded and engulfed by a damp nose and hot breath, thick fur and a wildly beating tail. It was a husky; a badly-trained, whirlwind-of-energy, Siberian husky. And once John had regained his senses, he and the husky had enjoyed a meeting of similar minds and had run riot for a few gloriously feral hours, until he’d been packed, filthy and exhausted, back into the car and they’d driven away, his new friend left disconsolate in the dusty lane.

This place gave him a similar feeling. It was Ancient. Ancient and ancient; as ancient as Atlantis, but with none of her quiet dignity. Things might have been very different if, when he had first stepped through the Gate, Atlantis had behaved like this place and crowded into his mind, tongue hanging out, tail whipping back and forth, desperate for contact after so long alone. Sumner probably would have locked him in the brig, as soon as they’d found it, and left him there.

He shivered and there was a bouncing offer of heat, which he accepted. He wondered how far they had to go and was assaulted by a detailed plan, which he narrowed down to his own position, on the lowest of multiple levels.

John nearly stumbled again. He could see the Gate. In his mind’s eye, there it was, at one end of a huge, raised platform.

And then they entered a large room with a row of cells and the guards unlocked their chains and pushed half of them into one cell and half into another, the chain running out through their ankle cuffs. Morla was pushed in behind him and horizontal bars slid back into place, just like those on Atlantis. Then the hum of a forcefield awoke and they were imprisoned once more, the whole sad train of men, women and children, destined for slavery.

oOo

Rodney was offered a choice of latcha or simeer, a creamy, spicy drink that he’d not encountered before. He chose the simeer. He was offered a warmed dish of hot biscuits with a pat of golden butter and a clutch of boiled eggs in a basket, the number of tiny stars stamped on their shells indicating their inner state, from soft-boiled to hard. He chose a soft-boiled egg, scooped it out of its shell and squashed it into the biscuits, so that they ran with melted butter and golden yoke. There were hot and cold meats, a variety of cheeses, stewed and fresh fruit, warm, sweet pastries and, Rodney suspected, had he expressed the slightest desire for anything else, it would quickly have been conjured up and brought to him.

He wasn’t hungry.

Of course, he knew he _must_ be hungry, because he hadn’t eaten since the night before. Lorentik Hefferen had picked him up from the railroad station, and it hadn’t been a quick drive-by, in-you-get kind of picking up; there had been servants on the platform, waiting to guide him to the front of the grandiose building where, occupying a sweeping carriage drive, there was a huge vehicle pulled by six shining, pleased-with-themselves grennets. Rodney had been gently deposited within the carriage’s cushioned comfort, where the master of all this luxury sat swathed in furs against the bitter cold night air. Rodney had soon been similarly swathed and his evening had continued in luxury heaped upon luxury, ending with a chamber of magnificent proportions and a four-poster bed which alone was bigger than the hovels he’d seen on the outskirts of Gulderren.

He’d eaten little the previous night and he ate little now, forcing himself to put food onto his fork, into his mouth, chew with mechanical precision and swallow past the lump in his throat that didn’t seem ever to go away.

Lorentik and his wife Rosenta spoke in quiet, morning murmurs across the snow-white tablecloth, bright silverware and delicate floral china. Greyla watched Rodney with huge, round eyes.

“But where _is_ John?” she demanded, again. “And Morla! They should be here. I want them!” Clearly Greyla had once more taken up her mantle of privilege. 

Rodney thought about Venna. He maneuvered another morsel of egg onto his fork. What were his friends being given to eat? They must have been given something; starving slaves wouldn’t be able to work. The group on the platform at Gorston came to mind again; hollow-eyed and shivering, destined for a hard life and a painful death at the hands of the Wraith. 

John and Morla and Venna. 

He put down his fork.

“Where _are_ they?”

“Not here! They’re not here, so just leave it alone! Just leave it!” Rodney stood and pushed back his chair so hard that it fell over onto the plush, burgundy carpet. He fled the few steps to the tall bay window, his bruised leg flaring suddenly as he turned. His breath came in painful drags, forced past the swelling in his throat, constricted by his tightly folded arms.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/50996503567/in/dateposted-public/)

It was snowing again and Rodney followed the tumbling flakes as they fell toward the broad sidewalk below, and collected on top of the iron railings that fenced in the Hefferen’s elegant house, each finial being surmounted with a tiny cap of white.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t turn back to the family breakfast table with its false civilities. No, he reprimanded himself; the civilities were genuine enough. Perhaps it was the whole civilisation that was false, especially here in this refined quarter of the city, when he knew that so many lived in poverty and fear.

“You don’t need to apologise.” Lorentik came alongside him.

Rodney glanced over his shoulder. Rosenta and Greyla had gone.

“No. I do. I should. It’s not Greyla’s fault.”

They stood together in the grey-white light.

“I understand -”

“You don’t.” Rodney cut off whatever the wealthy man had been about to say. “I’m sorry, but you really don’t. You couldn’t. Not unless you’ve been out there and seen.”

“I’ve been down the mine.”

“When they’ve been ready for you, ready to tell you what you wanted to hear.” He massaged the back of his neck where the muscles were tight and sore, but then let his hand fall. It was Sheppard’s gesture; the ‘tell’ that meant he was embarrassed or he needed time to think or he _should_ think but didn’t want to and would just go ahead and do something stupid anyways. “You knew about the slaves.”

Rodney let the statement hang in the air between them.

“We’ll go today.”

“Good. Yes. We should.” Today. He’d see the Gate today. And maybe go through. “So, who do we have to look out for? Who are the collaborators profiting from all this?”

“My guess is the Senior Councillor, Gerentay, is the main culprit. He and his clique are the only ones who have direct dealings with the Wraith.”

“They’re the ones to avoid, then. How will you get me in?”

“I’ll tell them you're my assistant. I’ve taken a personal assistant along before when I’ve visited the citadel.”

“And I’ll slip away.” Rodney’s fingers twitched for the cool smoothness of control crystals and the fine rice vermicelli of Ancient filaments; they would dance at his command.

“I’ve worked out a route that should take you, unseen, into the oldest parts of the citadel. What will you do?”

“Cause as much trouble as I can to keep them occupied. Infiltrate the Gate systems. Maybe even lock it into a friendly destination and go through.”

“You wouldn’t go through without your friends.”

Rodney let out a long, bitter sigh and rubbed his forehead. “If that was the only option, I’d have to. Then at least I’d be able to get to Atlantis and bring back help.”

Beside him, Lorentik Hefferen was silent. Rodney glanced up at the man’s face. His eyes reflected the bleak grey skies.

“Even if I can find them, and we all go through, we’ll come back. With help.”

“You’ll need to come soon.”

This man was risking his family, his heart. “We will.”

oOo

There were nine other cells, John counted. All of them held a similar number of slaves to his own cell, except one, which was empty. When that cell was filled, would they be sent through the Gate?

Guards patrolled the flanking clear area, between the door at one end and a blank wall at the other, but sporadically and with no attempt to convey efficiency or military discipline. Locked behind sturdy bars, weakened from the meagre supply of food and drink, there was, after all, no chance of escape. John’s lips twitched. 

The barred entrance was, in fact, ready, willing and able to slide back at his slightest mental command. He’d already had to issue a couple of extremely sharp vetoes to get it to stay closed while he wrestled with the next part of the plan and each time, Morla had thought he was frowning in pain and had distracted him with kind enquiries so that he nearly lost control.

“John, look at me.” Morla placed her hands either side of his face and he realised she’d been speaking to him for a while.

“I’m okay.” He took hold of her wrists and placed her hands gently back in her lap.

“No, John, you’re not and I’m really worried. I think those blows on your head have done something bad.”

“No, Morla, really, I’m fine.” He grinned at her. “See? I’ve just got a lot of stuff going on in my head is all.”

“How’re we getting out of this, then?” Venna, as usual, came straight to the point. “And if that ain’t what’s in your head, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Well…” He lowered his voice and leant in, in case the thought of getting out of the cell caused a riot. “I can get out of this cell, easy enough.”

“You can get out?”

Venna ignored Morla and her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t say ‘ _we_ can get out’.”

“No, I didn’t. Because I need you to stay here.”

Venna’s jaw dropped with a look of betrayal. She turned away and resorted to her now-familiar position of hugging her bent-up knees.

Morla put a hand on the hunched shoulders. “Venna, it’s not like that.”

The tangled head moved, but didn’t look up.

“Venna, slaves go through the Gate,” Morla said.

This brought Venna’s accusing gaze back to John and Morla. “I’d worked that out for meself. I’m guessing they don’t ever come back, though, right?”

John leant his head close to the angry girl’s. “What if I could get you sent somewhere better than this world? How about that?”

Venna sat up. “Oh. How?” She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Well, first I need to get out of here and then find the Gate controls. Then… well, I'll try to sort something out.” Could he do it without Rodney? Would his gene and a sympathetic Ancient facility be enough? 

“You’re not just going to run off and save yourself?”

“No. I'm gonna save you and then I'm going back for McKay.”

Morla swallowed and her lips twisted.

"He'll be okay. Rodney's gotten away from worse places.”

“What’s going on? D’you folks know a way out of here?” Eyes, suddenly sharp with interest, pierced him; the old woman he’d noticed on the train.

John had hoped to slip out unobserved, but realised the hope had been a futile one. “I’m gonna fix the Gate so that it takes us somewhere safe.”

“Huh. Sounds like crazy talk. If you can get out, the rest of us are coming too.” There was a rumbling murmur of agreement.

“Yes.” A young man spoke. “You can’t leave us here. We won’t let you.”

“He’s talking grennet shit,” said the old woman. “He’s stuck here same as us.”

“I’m not and I will get out. Soon.” John looked round at the desperate eyes, hungry for more than food. “Yeah, I could let you out too. But how far d’you think you’d get with the guards about and Wraith too? The only chance you’ve got is if you listen to me. Stay here and I’ll get you somewhere safe. I promise.”

“What’s the use?” The old woman spoke. “These bars are solid and there’s one of them ee-lectric barriers. None of us can get out.” She turned away.

The younger man looked at him and his eyes darted to John and away, hope and fear mixed with resignation. “If you get out the guards’ll stun you and bring you back. _If_ you get out.” He too turned away.

“You’ll all be safe. Soon. I promise.” There was no response. John turned back to his friends. “Okay, listen, Morla, I need you to remember some stuff. Just in case. Can you do that?"

She nodded. "Sure. I can do that. I'm good at remembering."

oOo

“This is my personal assistant.”

Rodney did his best to look like a meek but efficient servant, which was hard because he felt utterly ridiculous in the attire which was apparently standard for scuttling minions of his lowly rank. He had on a not-too-outrageous expensive woollen suit, although its lapels were tragically wide and its pants revealingly narrow, but the worst of the outfit was the long over-robe like an academic gown and the broad, flat mortar-board type hat.

The citadel guard, however, merely nodded them through the grandiose portal and he and Lorentik entered the complex at the heart of Teksa’corani. Rodney hadn’t taken much notice of the city as the carriage had passed through the crowded streets. He had an impression of an extremely mixed civilisation, nineteenth-century Earth contrasting with futuristic architecture and transport, based on both Wraith and Ancient styles and a mish-mash of other unidentifiable influences. Nowhere was there the slightest indication of gold paving, unsurprisingly.

He had been disappointed by his first view of the citadel. Standing on a low hill, it dominated the city, its walls towering blankly as if forbidding mere commoners to gaze upon its secrets. Its architecture and construction was not obviously Ancient, however, but Lorentik had reminded him that much had been added over the centuries, to the central complex.

Somewhere within lay the Gate and somewhere else, probably in levels far below, John and Morla and Venna were imprisoned. Rodney’s hands began to ache. He relaxed his clenched fists and tried to breathe evenly and deeply; he would achieve his objective, but he must remain calm and clear-headed.

“Ah, my dear Lorentik.”

Rodney started and froze. A richly-dressed, well-fed group of men approached down the broad corridor, their skin tones warmed by the red velvet drapery, their movements reflected in the shining parquet floor.

“Senior Councillor Gerentay,” Hefferen acknowledged.

Rodney ducked his head, his heart pounding hard, calmness and clarity of thought totally forgotten. The silly hat would hide his face if he kept his head down.

“I heard you were in town. Making some enquiries at the university, I believe?”

That voice, that oh-so-familar voice, not droning now but sleek and sure of itself; the voice of a man of power, secure in his own territory, letting Hefferen know that his movements had been noted. Rodney kept his head bowed.

“Just a passing interest, Councillor. Of no import.”

“Really?” The slimeball knew precisely what information Hefferen had requested and received; this man was undoubtedly the biggest threat to Rodney’s plan, and to Lorentik.

One of his flanking attendants spoke in a low voice, as if afraid of reprimand. “Senior Councillor, the meeting has convened. Farseer will be waiting.”

“I am aware of that, Prefect Denton, thank you.” Gerentay’s tones were clipped. The rank of Prefect apparently earned access to the citadel and the appearance of wealth, but clearly fell far below a status commanding the Senior Councillor’s civility.

“A meeting with our Wraith protectors, Councillor Gerentay?”

Rodney bristled. Protectors, indeed.

“The privileges of high rank are outweighed by many demands, Hefferen.”

Rodney doubted it. He coughed to suppress a derisive snort.

“Please, proceed.” Hefferen stood aside and swept his hand down the corridor, toward distant carved double doors.

The Senior Councillor made no attempt to swallow his sneer. “I do not wait for your dismissal, _Lower_ Councillor!” He strode past, his chin tipped, the sneer still distorting his features.

The entourage followed their leader, retreating down the corridor to disappear through tall double doors.

Rodney sagged, took off his hat and ran his fingers through sweat-damp hair. “Oh, God, that was so close.”

“Rodney?” Hefferen looked at him with concern. “Rodney, what’s wrong?”

“ _That...!_ ” He took a deep breath. “That was my old friend Councillor Pompous.”

“Councillor…? Gerentay? You’ve met him? How?”

“Met him, negotiated with him, been bored out of my extremely extensive intellect by him. Look, let’s not hang around here. Where can we go?”

“This way.”

Rodney followed Hefferen through the hallowed, echoing halls, ignoring the marbles and velvets and rich veneers that were merely the thin coverings of civilisation, hiding a festering core. And as he walked, the patterns of this world, and the events that had led to his and John’s abandonment here, began to lift and spin and reform in his mind.

oOo

The tenth cell was filled. The prisoners had been led past John’s cell, locked in and the guards had wandered slackly back toward the door, idly speculating on whether they’d be called to empty the cells before their shift ended. It was time to act.

John waited until just a solitary guard patrolled. The man had let his weapon dangle from a strap so that he could shove his hands in his pockets. It was tempting to sneak out and jump him, but then they’d know there was someone on the loose.

The guard turned and began his slow meander back toward the door. One of the ceiling lights went out behind him. He glanced upward, unconcerned, and moved on. Another light went out, this time slightly ahead. The man looked up curiously and turned to scan the other ceiling lights.

Then several went out in quick succession, leaving only one, a pale target above the door. The guard hurried toward it. Some of the slaves jeered and he waved his stunner at them but didn’t stop. He reached the door and went out.

John leant against the corner of his cell, hidden by the darkness, the buzzing in his head loud and eager to be of more assistance.

“Good luck,” Morla whispered.

“Thanks.” John allowed the bars to slide back, just enough for him to slip out. Then he doused the remaining light and moved silently past the occupied cells. A child cried. The door opened and a fan of light spread out. John shrank into the shadows to one side, pressing himself into the wall.

“All of them? How?” A guard stepped through, followed by another.

“Who the hell knows? This place is a wreck.”

John requested that the lights in the corridor should suddenly fail and the Ancient facility gladly obliged.

“Ancestors’ sake!”

He slipped out behind the confused men.

oOo

“Is this your office?” Rodney crossed the wood-panelled room and looked out of the window. There was a courtyard, several stories below, the surrounding buildings mismatched in style and height. He knew in which direction the Gate lay, but it was hidden from view. A glimpse would have been nice, just for the reassurance.

“No. I don’t have an allocated room. This is for visiting Councillors to use.”

“Anyone could come in, then!”

“They won’t. I’ve locked the door. Now, how do you know Councillor Gerentay?” 

Rodney explained about the meeting of the Coalition. “So, he wasn’t just a tedious ass after all. He was deliberately delaying because he’d organised for myself and Colonel Sheppard to be removed from the proceedings, no doubt throwing the whole alliance into chaos. What’s the name of this planet?”

“Sorry?”

“The name. What’s it called?” Rodney’s fingers snapped with impatience. “I’m amazed I haven’t asked before, although, why would I? It’s not normal to go round saying, ‘Hi, nice day for the time of year and by the way what’s this planet called?’”

“Fencoranindon,” said Hefferen, “Usually shortened to Fencorani, hence Teksa’corani.”

“Fencoranindon. Hm. Ridiculous name. But at least that confirms it - we know who we’re up against.”

“Gerentay’s a dangerous man. And if the Wraith lose power, he’d lose power too.”

“Yes, I daresay he’d be the first to the guillotine if there was a revolution here. But anyways, back to the matter in hand.” Rodney reached into an inner pocket and pulled out some folded sheets of thin paper. He laid them out on the desk. “Where are we?”

“Here.” Hefferen pointed to a section of the upper levels. “Here’s the Gate and the slave cells...” He licked his finger and flicked over several leaves of the tissue-like paper. “Are here.”

“That’s miles away!”

“I can’t get you any closer than this. Not with a High Council meeting on.”

“Then what’s the point? This is useless!” he shook his head and slapped at his ear. A bug buzzed irritatingly.

“No, it’s not. Not if you go this way.” Hefferen ran his finger in a series of right-angle turns over the surface of the top sheet, flicked over to the second and continued.

“No, no, no wait.” Rodney flattened down the papers again. “What was this first bit? What am I supposed to do there?”

“Ah, well, yes, that’s probably the hardest part.”

“What? Why?”

“You’d need to get up to the roof and then crawl behind the parapets so that you’re not seen.”

“The roof? What, you mean…?” Rodney waved a weak hand at the window. “Out there?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” said Hefferen with the casual air of one who was not about to risk falling to his death. “It really is the only way.”

oOo

It wasn’t hard to dodge the guards. Not for John who could turn off lights and lock doors and was given a tingly warning if he was in danger. The problem was his own weakness.

He limped up a flight of narrow stairs, breathing through his mouth to keep down the noise of his puffing breath. At the top was a choice of three ways. There were footsteps coming from the right, so John went straight on. Then there was a warning buzz in his head and a suggestion of a door to the left. He went in. It was a small storage closet and John took the opportunity to sink down onto the floor.

His leg wound burned and throbbed. He looked at it; an ugly single slash from a deep-digger’s claw, it oozed moisture and the flesh around it was red and hot, with a tiny lattice of red capillaries standing out. He’d fix the Gate, with luck, and then he needed to get out of here and get help before going back for Rodney. Maybe he could find the Hefferen place? He was supposed to be in the city somewhere.

John thought about the Gate and its controls and was presented with an image of an octagonal tower at one end of the huge Gate platform. It projected both above and below the ground and the controls were on the level just below the platform.

“That’s no good, the place’ll be swarming with Wraith.”

Another option was presented, deep below the surface.

“That’s the one for me.” He assessed his own position and realised he had come too high and needed to descend again. “Okay, off we go.” John climbed up the shelves, hand over hand, avoiding putting weight on his leg until he had to. The pain stabbed through his damaged muscle and he swayed and gripped the shelving again. But it wasn’t just the leg injury and recent blows to this head that were making him light-headed. He knew he was becoming dangerously dehydrated. “Bathroom,” he mumbled. “Water.” The obliging Ancient facility showed him the way.

oOo

Rodney thought he might vomit and that would be a bad thing for him, clinging precariously to the guttering, his toes delivering most of his weight to a projecting window lintel. It would also be a bad thing for anyone traversing the courtyard below. Far below. Nauseatingly far.

“Move,” he told himself. “C’mon Rodney, just move.” The freezing air penetrated his clothes and soon his fingers and toes would be numb and he’d fall. He inched to his right, slowly, slowly, one foot, then one hand, moving just a tiny bit at a time. Rodney’s heart beat so fast its vibrations alone seemed enough to force him off his narrow ledge, sending him hurtling down to the hard ground.

He came to the edge of the lintel and his eyes flicked sideways. The adjacent side of the courtyard was a storey lower, so that his next move was to cross to a pitched roof at right angles to his current perch. Once he’d made it he should be able to lie down and shuffle along, in relative safety. But first, he had to bridge the gap.

Rodney worked his trailing foot closer and his left hand on the guttering, until hands and feet were both close together. Then he reached out his right hand, sliding it along the gutter. Something buzzed in his ear. That bug! What the hell was it after, following him up here?

His eyes flicked right again. He’d have to stretch out his leg, let go of the gutter and let himself fall onto the projecting slope. Yes, that was definitely the thing to do. The only problem was, that sequence of actions was absolutely, unutterably terrifying. The drop below him sent a cold shudder up his spine. He wouldn’t look. He wouldn’t look down all those terrifying storeys.

The buzzing was back, in both ears now - there must be two of the things. There was a tickle too, like something he should have thought about; something he had forgotten which was trying to work its way to the forefront of his mind.

“Not now!” he told it. “I’m busy!”

Rodney would have taken a deep breath, but was afraid even that would dislodge him. He thought about Sheppard and Morla and Venna, trapped somewhere below. He thought about Atlantis. His right foot left its safe haven and reached out over the void. One hand left the guttering. He fixed his eyes on his target, the low parapet at the edge of the pitched roof; if he could just get his foot behind that and he wouldn’t fall. Definitely wouldn’t fall. Probably wouldn’t fall.

“Now or never.” He let his balance tip, sending him out over the terrifying drop. And the buzzing suddenly roared, so that his head and his eyes were full with sound. He couldn’t see his target. The freezing wind whipped through his hair as he fell.

oOo

John had had to double back. There were Wraith drones everywhere. He was still too high, too close to the main control area; he needed to get down, back into the bowels of this maze-like facility. There seemed no logic in its construction, although perhaps having the cells in an isolated section was entirely logical, John thought. Either way, he really needed to reach his target and he really, really needed to find some water along the way.

The patrol had gone. John came out his alcove, where he’d been hiding behind one of those Ancient sculptures that resembled parts of an old steam engine fastened together at random and painted brown. Suddenly Carson’s voice was in his mind: “My old mum wouldn’t give the likes of those house room,” he’d said when they’d first arrived on Atlantis. “Your feather duster’d wear out in no time!” John really needed Carson now, with his fussing and mother-henning, his beds and his drugs.

He made his way down the corridor, down a flight of stairs and, guided by a nudge from his Ancient gene, he found himself in a bathroom, the basins, familiar from Atlantis, with their initially puzzling lack of faucets. He knew their secret, however. He flicked a hand below the projecting pipe and water gushed forth. He drank, noisily and thirstily, not heeding Carson’s voice in his head telling him to slow down, but stopping instantly when something itched at his senses.

The room was silent but for the trickling water. He took a step backward toward the stalls, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, and listened. Was that a footstep, in the corridor? John went into a stall and shut the door. Was it a patrol of drones? Did Wraith even use the bathroom?

There was definitely something coming. A rhythmic beat came from the corridor outside. It must be a patrol. Would they check the bathroom? He couldn’t fight them, not without weapons. He thought hard at the bathroom door but didn’t feel that click in his head. Lock, damn you! The beat grew louder. Maybe they wouldn’t come in. 

John licked his dry lips and swallowed, his thirst far from quenched. And through the thin walls of the stall he heard the outlet give an obliging gush, an abundance of clean, cold water surging forth; noisily.

The footsteps ceased. The door opened.

oOo

Rodney’s shin impacted the sharp edge of the parapet, and then his flailing hands smacked into the tiled roof and then his chin cracked on the slate, his teeth bit into his tongue and his mouth filled with blood.

The buzzing had gone. He wondered if it had just been vertigo or an inconveniently timed panic attack. Then he realised the parapet was still digging into his shins and his feet were still projecting over the edge, visible from below. He painfully drew them in and slumped into a curled, shuddering ball between the low barrier and the pitched tiles.

He spat out blood and wiped his mouth then probed his chin, his fingertips coming away red. Snowflakes landed on his fingers and melted, washing away the blood. His heart rate gradually slowed, from absolute blind terror to an acceptable rate for one engaged in his current hair-raising endeavour.

“Move your ass, McKay,” he said, John-style. And then, “You must move now, Rodney,” in an attempt at Teyla’s calm encouragement. Ronon’s contribution would be non-verbal; a shove from behind, a drag from in front.

Rodney extended his legs and slid up the freezing cold tiles. He spread out his arms and sidestepped, leaning his weight gratefully against the pitch. It was almost relaxing compared to what had come before and Rodney actually closed his eyes and let his body do its thing. He then became aware that the buzzing hadn’t disappeared but had merely retreated to a background itchy tickle somewhere indeterminately between his ears and the nape of his neck.

And as he made his shuffling way along the surface, the tickle increased to a tingling, burning sensation which was rather like the time that he’d had roast beef when on a visit to England. He’d liberally covered it with the creamy horseradish sauce provided, not realising that the main ingredient had been dug out of the ground that morning and was more than ready to take on any unwary scientists. The jabbing, burning, eye-poppingly sharp sensation he’d experienced running from his face to the back of his scalp was like nothing he’d experienced before or since; until now.

He reached the far end of the roof and looked up at the ridge above him. There was no way he’d find sufficient purchase on that smooth slope to haul his already abused body up so far. The buzzing jabbed once more at his scalp and he slapped the back of his neck in irritation. Then he reached up and, cutting his fingers on the edges of sharp slate, he prised some of the tiles askew, just enough to provide a few meagre foot and handholds. He climbed.

“So, this is me now. This is the kind of thing I do.” Rodney pulled himself higher, drawing up one leg beneath him and clenching his toes in a fruitless attempt to fit more of his boot into the small gap in the tiles. “This is Dr Meredith Rodney McKay, coming to you from a rooftop deep within enemy territory.” He reached out and pried another tile loose with his sore fingers, then pushed them into the gap and pulled himself higher. “‘And how are conditions over there in Teksa’corani, Rodney?’ ‘Well, Lester, things are definitely on the up.’” He pulled himself higher, risked a brief look up at his target ridge-tile and his boot slipped out of its toe hold. Rodney’s fingers took his full weight, the slate and the wooden lathes beneath cutting into his skin. His boots scrabbled for purchase, one of them caught and he eased the pressure on his hands, releasing them one at a time to flex his fingers and wince. “‘Although progress is slow and sudden downturns definitely not to be discounted.’”

The next toehold was by his hip. He bent his leg and the buzzing, itching, shivering sensation in his scalp increased. His boot scraped over the tiles. He eased himself sideways to get his foot up just that little bit higher, felt his boot gain purchase in the small gap, thrust down and slapped his curling fingers over the ridge tile, one hand then the other. He paused, took a breath, then pulled, got one elbow over, then the other and balanced, the ridge digging into his stomach, his head hanging down one side, his legs still kicking at the other. At the bottom of a steep descent was a flat section of roof, in a blue-grey metallic surface, studded with round cylindrical vents topped, like wishing wells, with small pitched roofs. Rodney recognised the style from some of the lower towers on Atlantis.

And, as he made that direct comparison, the buzzing rose until there was a distinct ‘pop’ in his mind and then a flooding gush of sound and image. The mass of sensation disoriented him so that he flung out his arms and legs in sudden panic, then tipped forward and rolled down the roof, over and over until he thudded down onto the flat surface, rolled a bit further and then smacked up against one of the squat ventilation towers.

“Ugh. Oh, God. Uh.” Rodney rolled himself upright so that his back leant against the tower. He looked at his cut, bleeding hands, the tears in his pants, the bloodstains on his jacket and shirt - from his mouth? His chin? “Oh,” said Rodney again. And suddenly he knew that if he allowed himself to be led by the tiny tug deep within him it would take him to a small room that had once housed first aid facilities. “Oh. Hello.”

oOo

One way in, one way out and that way barred to him by the drone patrol. How many were there? There were no voices, the drone’s face-coverings confining them to telepathy. John crouched. Two pairs of feet, one near the door, the other by the basins. He couldn’t take them; not two and not even one, if he was honest. The feet by the door moved. They’d spotted the closed stall.

Now or never.

John burst out, yelling and waving his arms. He made no attempt to engage the drones, but dashed past, relying totally on surprise. A stunner rose, but too late and the blue fire bounced off the door as John hurtled through it and ran, taking the first turn he came to, stunner fire at his heels. There was a descending staircase and he took it, tripping, stumbling, falling into a painful heap onto the half landing, picking himself up and taking the steps as fast as he could; too fast so that he careened off the wall, righted himself with the handrail, tripped, regained his footing and above him the stunners whined again and again.

He couldn’t outrun them; not for long. Hide. He had to hide.

One hand on the handrail he jumped down a short flight and his momentum flung him forward into the far wall. He immediately pushed off and dived through the doors and into an unlit corridor. Clamping down on a helpful flare of light he picked an entrance at random, fell in through the door and ordered it to slide shut and lock. A peremptory command shut and locked all of the other doors in the corridor too.

John closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into the sockets, wincing at the pain of his injuries, his labouring lungs and the overload of data thrust into his bewildered mind by the excitable Ancient systems. “Give it a rest, please!” he muttered.

And then he froze.

A ‘snick’ in his mind and an audible swish spoke of a lock being overridden. Sensation and sound came again, both closer. They were opening the doors, checking the rooms one by one.

They were coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both at large in the citadel surrounding the Gate, but both in danger - will our heroes find each other and escape? It could go either way!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for all your comments! Please leave kudos if you haven't already!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s time our boys were back together and going home! But there might be a few small obstacles in their path...

John faced the door, his hands spread out, twitching for a weapon, his heart racing, his senses narrowed to the approaching sounds and the line where the sliding door met the wall. The drones came closer, breaking open the door controls as they went, shorting out the circuits and searching each room. 

_Stay locked, stay locked, stay locked._

He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t hold the doors closed. There was a hiss of sparks, a snap in his head as another lock was broken and the room next to his opened.

_Stay. Locked._ Surely he could jam the mechanism? Force the doors closed, break the connection between the sliding runners and the controls? _Lock. Jam. Seal._

Should he make a break for it? Just try bursting past and running again? Did he have a choice? John braced himself, fists clenched, legs bent, ready to spring and run.

“Psst! Hey! Sheppard!”

John spun round.

“Hey! Up here!”

High on the wall a patterned grille hinged back and a hand emerged.

The how and why could wait. John took a run up, sprang, grasped the hand, curled his fingers round the frame and pulled, his arm muscles straining and cracking. One elbow hooked itself into the narrow space, then the other, then he wriggled and kicked frantically, his chest and stomach and then legs scraping over the lip.

“Come on!”

He followed the voice, inch-worming his way along the ventilation shaft, a pair of feet kicking along in front of him. He wanted to grab hold of those ankles and pull their owner toward him so that he could see his face, see the man who, out of nowhere, out of hope against all hope, was here, at his side once more, where he belonged. Or, if not at his side, wriggling ahead of him in a narrow tunnel, which was more than good enough for John.

“Rodney!”

“Of course Rodney. Who else on this planet would have turned up to rescue you just at the right time? In the nick of time in fact?”

“But how? What happened back at the mine?”

“Remny got us out, and the scary admin woman shot Kimmer herself and incited a rebellion.”

“Yenet? Wow. Never piss off the admin staff.”

“Exactly. Oh. This’ll do.” 

John heard a sharp bang, a rattle and a squeak, followed by an “Oh for…!” and then a distant thud. He shuffled forward, past the grille that Rodney had loosened, then lowered himself through and down, feet first, into a dark space.

He thought up the lights to reveal an empty room scattered with heaps of discarded items and one heap of discarded scientist.

“Are you okay?” John crouched down.

“Yes.” Rodney winced. “Note to self: head first - bad.”

Rodney climbed to his feet and John began to straighten up. There was a dull rushing in his ears, the room spun and then there was a strong arm around his shoulders, lowering him to the ground.

“Jesus, Sheppard, look at the state of you! When did you last eat?”

“Uh…”

“I’ll take that as a ‘not today’.”

The support John was leaning against moved and huffed.

“Here. John. Look.”

A flattened bread roll wavered in front of John’s face. No. Not a bread roll. Some kind of sweet pastry; his starved system could smell the sugar and the fat. He snatched it and stuffed as much into his mouth as he could, the sweetness and the starchiness and the mouth-fillingness making him moan his appreciation.

“John meet pastry, pastry meet your fate," said Rodney.

He swallowed “‘Nother?” A small, round baked item was held out. John packed it into his mouth. Already he could feel energy flowing into his tired body.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any water.”

“‘S okay. I just drank.” He swallowed, wiped his mouth and sat up, still wobbly but rapidly improving. “Hey, Rodney.”

“Hello, John.”

John stared, grinning. Rodney grinned back.

“What happened to your chin?”

“A roof. What happened to your everything?”

John shrugged. “Oh, you know, Kimmer’s goons, slavery, that kinda thing.”

“And the Rodent of Staggering Size,” said Rodney. “That looks infected.”

“Yeah.” John regarded his ugly leg wound. Then he looked up at Rodney. His friend’s bruised and bloody chin wasn’t his only injury. His hands were cut and bloodstained, his pants torn, and he was crumpled and dirty and had the offended air of an unjustly persecuted, beset-by-unreasonable-physical-demands, entirely innocent and defenseless holder of two PhDs. John’s face split into another grin.

“What?”

“You.”

“What?”

John poked Rodney’s shoulder. “You’re here.”

“I am,” said Rodney, with satisfaction. “But I’d like to be elsewhere.”

“How d’you find me?

“Are you kidding me? Once this place made a connection to my inferior gene you stood out like a magnesium flare.”

“Huh, yeah.” John suspected that if he’d been more with it, he would have been able to tell there was another holder of the Ancient gene in the complex. “Listen, Rodney, we need to fix the Gate.”

“Yes, but there’s something you don’t know. Councillor Pompous is here. And my guess is that he’s behind our kidnapping.”

John scratched his head. “Ow.”

“Head injuries as well."

"Yeah."

"Are you concussed? Are you processing _any_ of this?"

"I'm okay." John ignored Rodney's eye-roll. "Let's focus on avoiding the bad guys and fixing the Gate. Once we're back on Atlantis, Woolsey can deal with the rest."

"Sounds like a plan. Well, it sounds like a desperate plan, but that’s nothing new. So, what, we set the Gate to go to an alpha site next time they dial out? How do we know they won’t dial out before the slaves are sent through?”

“We don’t know. But we’ve got a pretty damn good idea that they’re sending the slaves through in the next couple of hours. So…”

“So, sneaky auxiliary Gate controls it is, then." Rodney rubbed his hands together. "A little bird told me they're -"

"That way." John pointed.

"Yes, of course you'd know. I bet this place loves you."

"Yeah, like a tonne of bricks."

"Subtle?"

John grimaced. "Not so much."

“Right, let’s go!” 

John grinned again. Though his friend appeared battered and careworn, there was a familiar gleam in his eyes; the gleam of one who was about to enjoy wreaking his own particular brand of havoc on the crystalline complexity of Ancient Gate systems.

oOo

It was difficult without his tools. For anyone else, of course. It would have been impossible, but for Dr Rodney McKay, ‘difficult’ was as far as it went. The auxiliary control room was a mere broom cupboard, housing a reduced version of one of the usual sloping Ancient consoles. It could have been designed for use only in emergencies or, as far as Rodney’s needs were concerned, in cases where intruders wanted to sneak in and mess things up.

The messing up was proceeding relatively smoothly. He’d rerouted four of the necessary seven chevrons and was manipulating the fine filaments which would reroute the fifth.

“Where are you sending us?” John leant against the doorframe, ostensibly alert for any approach. Actually, Rodney was worried about him; his normal nonchalant lean came across as a need for support to keep himself anything like upright. His face was flushed and he shivered occasionally. Rodney recalled his clawing by the wild vrax and the fever it had led to; it looked like John was heading the same way.

“One of the new alpha sites. P3Y-4HX?”

John looked blank.

“The one with the scaly grey penguins?”

“Oh, yeah. Cool guys.”

“Hmph.” The ‘cool guys’ had sniffed out and eaten all of Rodney’s power bars within five minutes of his arrival. “They’d better keep their beaks out of my pockets this time. Anyways, some of your grunts should be there, shouldn’t they?”

“We established a military presence, yeah,” said John pointedly.

Rodney turned back to his work. His fingers danced happily through the filaments and crystals, isolating and reconnecting, splicing and rerouting. How he’d missed this! Missed the challenge; the way he had to hold the pattern of the circuitry in his head and plan complex sequences of actions, calculating all the possible ramifications and options, sending his brain sparking with excitement. Soon be going home, he thought. Home to Atlantis and his lab full of treasures. Home to Jennifer. “Um.”

“Hm?”

“I take it Morla’s here? I mean, is she okay?”

“Yeah. And Venna. They’re okay.”

“Oh. Good.” He turned back to his work. Fifth chevron rerouted. Sixth well on its way.

“McKay?”

“Yes, what? Important work going on here!”

“Is there anything, er, going on? Between you and Morla?”

“No. Of course not.” Rodney fiddled with an awkward connection. “That is, probably not.” The link snapped into place and he pinched another fine filament between his finger and thumb.

“So that’s a yes?”

“I, er… Nothing’s happened. And I’m with Jennifer.”

“Okay.” John’s voice was totally neutral. Suspiciously neutral. 

Rodney made another connection. Six chevrons ready and willing to be redirected. “The thing is, um. The thing is…”

“What’s the thing?”

“Okay, so the thing is, I’m not sure if Jennifer and I want the same things. She wants a career and a home on Earth and all the normal stuff that normal people are supposed to want to put in a normal home - walk-in closets, state-of-the-art kitchens, miniature dogs, kids and so on. And I thought I wanted that too. Well, I think Jennifer told me I wanted that too. But I don’t. Earth isn’t home anymore. Atlantis is.” Rodney reached deep inside the spaghetti-tangle, drew out the strand he wanted and looked at it thoughtfully. “And the other thing is that when I’m with Jennifer - sometimes, but not always - I feel like I’m trying to be someone I’m not. The kind of man who knows when to stop talking, who knows what’s the right thing to say and what’s the wrong thing. And the problem with that is that sometimes I _need_ to say the wrong thing. It’s what I’m good at. Did I ever tell you what Rod said to me? No? He said, ‘You say exactly what’s on your mind no matter how it makes you look.’ And he was right. It’s what I do best. One of the many things I do best.”

“Okay.” John shifted his shoulders and flexed his injured leg. “And Morla?”

“I don’t know! She’s probably wrong for me too. She’s as young as Jennifer and we have, on the surface, little in common.”

“But?”

“With Morla, I feel more like me. Just me. Just Rodney McKay with no need to pretend.”

“Or to diet?”

“Yes, that too.” The final connection snapped into place. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Well, not only am I the kind of action man who leaps over rooftops like Spider-Man in order to rescue his friend from mortal peril, I’m also the kind of super-genius in-touch-with-his-feelings guy who can reconfigure Gate controls while summarising certain aspects of his love life.” The last connection clicked into place. “Go me,” said Rodney. He picked up the covering panel and fastened it back on. “Now what?”

“We get back to the holding cells. Wait to be sent through the Gate.”

“Yes, so here’s the bit I’m not entirely happy with. Because right now my status is set to ‘free’ and I’m more than okay to maintain that condition.” Rodney began to climb to his feet. His legs fizzed and burned with returning circulation and he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear his stiffened body creaking.

“What’s your freedom worth in this place, Rodney?” John’s voice was worn down to a rough croak.

“The words diddly and squat spring to mind." Rodney rolled his stiff shoulders. "I know - this is the plan, now we carry it through.” He flipped a tired hand at the door. “Lead the way.”

John nodded, his face grim, his mouth set into a determined line. He turned away and then back again. “It’s good to see you.” His eyes fell to the floor. “I shouldn’t’ve left you. In the mine.”

“What choice did you have?”

His friend looked up, his eyes sore and red above shadow-smudges of exhaustion. “None.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/51005295198/in/dateposted-public/)

oOo

The bars of the cell dug into John’s back as cell bars always did. He thought about lying on the floor, but the cell was crowded and he didn’t want to get stood on.

He and Rodney had made it back through the Ancient complex without incident, other than a few anxious waits tucked into alcoves, a couple of quick dives into empty rooms and another short traverse of a ventilation duct. Then, the guards lured away by yet more failing lights and randomly opening and closing doors, he and Rodney had slipped in unseen and joined the ranks of the slaves-to-be.

“Dr Rodney McKay.” Rodney’s whispered introduction should have raised a smile, but John was too tired. His friend shook a few hands, as if he were attending a conference rather than becoming a new inmate in a jail cell and, if Rodney ever did go to a conference with Morla at his side, her eyes at once admiring and protective, John decided he wanted to be there to see it. Morla’s arm was around Rodney’s waist and his around hers, her smile shining despite her dirty clothes and less than comfortable circumstances. What did that mean for Jennifer? Maybe nothing. Life and death situations, heightened emotions - people reacted and then later changed their minds.

John yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“You did it then.” The sceptical old woman nudged him with a bony elbow.

“Yeah. Think so,” he replied.

“So, what happens? We go through the Ancestors’ Ring and we’re free?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Free to do what?”

John looked at her.

“Where do we go? What do we do? This planet’s our home.”

“We’ll make sure you’re looked after.”

“By who? Sounds like wishes and lies to me.”

“Leave him alone.” Rodney interrupted. “Can’t you see he’s sick?”

“I’m fine, Rodney.”

The woman backed off, muttering.

“Honestly, there’s just no pleasing some people.” Rodney shuffled into place beside John, and Morla sat down next to him, their arms still about each other’s waists. 

Venna inserted herself into a small space on John’s other side. She took his hand. “You came back.”

“Said I would.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere cool.” A thought occurred to John. “Hey, have you got folks back at the mine? We’ll get you home. But it might take some time.”

Venna shook her head. “Ma and Da were killed in a cave-in, two years back. Orphanage ain’t no fun.”

“Oh.” The grip on his hand tightened and he squeezed back.

“Your poor fingers,” Morla said, taking one of Rodney’s hands in her own. “And I’ve nothing to clean them with. They look real sore.”

“Agonising,” replied Rodney. “I had to cling by my fingertips! It’s a miracle I survived.” He’d taken off his jacket and vest and tie and looked sufficiently rumpled and dirty to fit in with the rest of the prisoners.

“You did good, McKay.” John yawned.

“Yes, well, I did what I could.”

“And now we just wait?” Morla asked.

“That’s about the size of it.” John yawned again.

“You should get some sleep,” she said.

“Yeah, we all should,” said John.

“I’m not tired. I’ll keep watch.”

“Thanks, Rodney.”

John closed his eyes. The bars dug relentlessly into his back.

Then his head jerked as something moved beneath him. He’d fallen asleep leaning against Rodney’s shoulder.

“Sheppard. John, they’re coming.”

“Huh?” There was a crick in his neck. He winced.

“John, wake up.”

“‘M ‘wake.” He eased his neck upright, supporting it with a massaging hand. “Ow. What the hell?”

“They’re coming.”

There was a forest of legs, black against the dim yellow gloom. John cleared his throat. It didn’t normally take him this long to come round. A chain rattled somewhere behind him. He twisted his body, wincing, to see that the guards were emptying the cells one by one.

“Can you stand?”

“Course I can stand. I’m fine.” The burning ache of John’s leg burst into white-hot fire as he pushed up from the ground. An arm around his waist stopped him from falling to the ground.

“Oh, yes, I can see you’re good for a marathon. Just lean on me, Sheppard.”

The hum of the forcefield cut out and the bars slid back, just enough for the slaves to exit one at a time.

“Get behind me, McKay.”

A guard covered the slaves with his stunner, while another held a length of chain. “Out. Now.” There was some shuffling, nobody prepared to go first. The stunner whined into life. “You.” The muzzle pointed at the old woman. She stepped forward, her chin lifted high.

“Chain me up, then,” she said. “It won’t be for long!”

John cursed inwardly and an angry hiss came from behind him.

“Give the whole plan away, why don’t you?” Rodney whispered.

“Shut up, McKay.”

The guards merely laughed. “You’re probably right, old witch. A couple of day’s work and you’ll be done for.”

She didn’t respond, the chain was threaded through her ankle cuff and the rest of the slaves moved forward, to be attached one by one.

“No! I won’t do it! No!” Venna’s high-pitched protests came from the back of the cell, where she’d flattened herself against the bars.

The stunner was directed her way. “Get in line, kid.”

“No! I don’t want to!”

The guard fired, the blast striking sparks off the bars at Venna’s head height. “You’ll do it or I’ll shoot you.”

“It’s okay, Venna, look.” John reached forward and took the chain from the crouching guard and threaded it through his own link. “See? We’ll be okay.”

The lights flickered, an alarm sounded somewhere in the distance and the bars of the other cells slid shut and opened again. The guard looked away. John threaded the chain through a hole in the hem of Rodney’s pants and then through Morla’s ankle cuff. They moved forward, out of the cell.

“I’m sorry,” said Venna. “I’ll do it now.”

The guard snarled at her, threaded the chain through her link and shoved her, stumbling, out of the cell.

“So far so good,” muttered Rodney.

They shuffled, just nameless slaves in a long line of bowed shoulders and hopeless hearts; along a passageway, up some stairs, along and up and along and up, until they were winding, the whole train of them, up a spiral staircase, round and round, and John was shaking with pain and fatigue, his hop-step gait punctuated with involuntary jerks and gasps. Then he flinched again at the jab of white light against his eyes and the freezing air against his hot skin, as they emerged onto a huge platform, so white that he couldn’t tell where marble ended and the patches of snow and glittering frost began.

The whiteness flared in a surge of reflected light and John looked up and across the flat, blank expanse. And there was the Gate, the event horizon settling and shimmering in heart-wrenching beauty and familiarity. He forgot his pain and fatigue and the weakness in his limbs, and the fever-fog of his mind cleared into one single fact: he was going home. He was going through the Gate and if Rodney had calculated correctly - and when didn’t Rodney calculate correctly? - they would soon be at the alpha site, surrounded by the scaly penguin things and by troops from Atlantis; familiar faces of men and women John knew and trusted, who would get them home.

A hitch of breath came from behind him and a sniff. “There it is.”

“Yep. Nearly there,” said John.

“Move it!” The guards hustled them forward, prodding with the muzzles of their weapons. Wraith drones stood either side of the Gate. Would they be going through too? Or were they just there to make sure there were no escape attempts? Either way, once the wormhole had established, the troops at the alpha site would be there, alert and ready. Would it be Lorne in charge? Or Teldy? Or one of the younger Lieutenants? It didn’t matter. John trusted all of them with his life.

He couldn’t keep his head down, couldn’t look at the ground and pretend to drag his unwilling feet to a horrible, torturous fate. Even the pain from his infected leg wound couldn’t stop him from straightening his body and lifting his chin, and, in just a moment, when he stepped through the Gate, the men and women under his command would see Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard and no downtrodden slave.

Forward, ever so slowly forward toward the Gate. The first of the slaves had gone through, the others following in a steady stream. The ground rippled and sparkled beneath John’s feet, the event horizon loomed large in his vision and the blue glow reflected on his filthy clothes and pale skin.

Nearly there. Behind him, Rodney was muttering the same thing, “Nearly there, nearly there,” and John knew that he too would go through the Gate with his head held high, the Chief Science Officer of Atlantis, returning to the life that he loved after being thought lost forever.

The head of their group went through, one then another, and another. John’s heart swelled within him. _Get a grip,_ he told himself, biting his lip hard. _Get a grip, John._

Nearly there.

“Stop!”

John’s head whipped round.

“Stop, I say!”

He couldn’t see who it was. He blinked and squinted against the glare and prepared to step forward regardless.

The jab of a weapon stopped him, one of the drones nudging the muzzle of his weapon into his ribs.

The figure marched forward and his face was illuminated with rippling silver.

“Ah, yes. Yes, it is!” The voice held a gloating, triumphant malice. “It is you. Both of you.”

The Councillor looked John up and down, pleasure and derision mixed in his sneering gaze. Then he looked at Rodney. “I wondered why I was not sent proof; proof, I asked for! Some significant body-part that could be tested so that I could be sure you were dead. A finger, an ear, a toe would have done. And now I see the reason. I am betrayed.”

“Poor you,” said John. The drone rammed the muzzle of his weapon into John’s gut and he collapsed, coughing and retching onto the frost-dusted marble.

“But no matter. You are here now. And perhaps you may be useful.”

John tried for another jibing response, but couldn’t get his breath.

“We’re of no use to you, Gerentay, you pompous ass. Yes, pompous, and how I’ve itched to say that to your face!” There was a thud, a gasp and Rodney was on the ground beside him.

Morla and Venna mustn’t betray themselves. They mustn’t. John waited for a cry of protest, an exclamation; none came.

“Oh, I think I’ll find a use for two such illustrious prisoners.” Gerentay was wearing boots with jewelled heels. John’s diaphragm jerked in a spasm or a hysterical laugh. “Detach these two,” he ordered.

John’s ankle was grabbed and unhitched and Rodney’s deception was uncovered.

“You joined the slaves hoping to return to a friendly world through the Gate?” Gerentay gave a nasty chuckle. “Your hope was in vain. Send the rest through!”

John raised his head, his arms still clutching his aching ribs. Morla moved forward, looking neither right nor left, her face a blank mask. Venna followed, glancing at John just as she stepped through the event horizon, her eyes huge and frightened in her white face. Then she was gone. He shuddered with cold and relief.

They’d been so close; so close to freedom and home, warmth and food and much-needed medical attention. But their friends were safe. They were safe and they’d get help and Atlantis would come back in time to save him and Rodney both. And whatever Gerentay had planned wouldn’t happen.

“Take them to the culling cells,” said Gerentay.

oOo

Had it been a prison colony, Rodney thought, to hold so many cells? Had the huge Gate platform been designed to take multiple puddlejumpers full of convicted prisoners? He and John had been hustled back the way they had come, down the long flights of stairs, along the passageways, human and Wraith guards watching their every move, weapons ready to stun, down into the darkness once more, away from the great circle of light that led to freedom.

They’d entered another large room with cells down one side and Rodney would not think about what might have been, so he thought about the Ancients and what they had built and what it was for.

There were ten cells again, just like the slaves’ waiting room, though these were more sparsely populated. The most notorious criminals, Hefferen had told them, were ceremonially culled at Teksa’corani; and any ruling families that had fallen from grace, the entire clan culled as an example to the rest. Would they connect him and John to Hefferen? John’s ankle cuff told them he’d arrived as a slave - would they wonder about Rodney and investigate, and then Hefferen and his wife and Greyla would be culled together?

Horizontal bars slid back before him and he was pushed forward hard, to land, sprawling, on top of John. The guards jeered and laughed, then departed, the muzzles of their weapons clanging against the bars of other cells, taunting the prisoners within. The door opened and closed; the cell block was silent.

Rodney rolled away from John and sat up. His friend lay face down, his hands curled into claws, scraping at the hard ground. “Sheppard? Are you okay?”

John groaned and pushed himself up, his weight heavy on his arms, his head hanging. His breath came in shivering gusts and his hair was damp; the infection was taking hold.

“John? Rodney?” The voice floated out of the darkness. John jerked like he’d been shot and dragged himself over to the bars.

“Lara!”

“John!”

“Lara…” He seemed incapable of further speech, his head resting on the bars.

Rodney peered across the dimly lit gap, into the next cell. There were three dark shapes, three pairs of eyes glinting back at him; two slim and about John’s height, one broad and much taller and with a flash of white teeth as he grinned at them. Rodney’s eloquence deserted him. “What the hell?”

“Oh, John.”

The five prisoners simply looked at each other. John’s hand twitched as if to reach out between the bars. If it hadn’t been for the forcefield, would their hands have met? Could they have bridged the gap and touched, even just fingertip to fingertip?

“You -” John croaked and cleared his throat. “You’re not -. What happened?”

“They caught us,” said Lara. “We thought we’d got away with it. We’d reached Sahanva and thought we were free, thought it was far enough, but someone recognised us.”

“They recognised Beddows.” Ferdan’s voice, tired and bleak.

“I bin in all the gangs,” said Beddows with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

“The Agent searched our things, found the gold, ’n’ made the link to the Southern line robbery.” Even in the dark, Rodney could see the bruises on Ferdan’s face. “I guess he thought he’d make a name for hisself, sending us up to the City to be culled.”

“John, are you alright?” Lara crouched down and her fingers reached toward the bars.

“I’m okay.”

“No, he’s not. He has an infected leg wound from some crazy underground rats.” Rodney told their friends what had happened since they’d last met. John remained slumped against the bars, watching Lara, who watched him back, her eyes rarely leaving his face, except every so often she turned away, and when she turned back she would smile as if she hadn’t been wiping tears from her cheeks.

“They’ll have got through - Morla and the little girl,” said Lara. “They’ll have told your men to send help, won’t they? Atlantis will send help?”

“I hope so,” said Rodney. “I hope so.”

They were silent for a while. Rodney’s stomach was empty. He sat down next to John, feeling the heat blaze out from his friend’s body and the convulsive shivers that came and went. He could do nothing to help. Nothing but sit alongside John and be in the same god-awful mess, facing the same fate, the same death, if rescue didn’t come.

The cell block door opened. Already? Surely they weren’t going to be culled already?

Footsteps approached. Their cell bars slid back.

“Get up.” A human guard spoke, flanked by two drones.

Rodney helped John to his feet. His friend would normally have had some snark at the tip of his tongue, some black humour to piss off the guards and take back at least some semblance of control. But John remained silent and Rodney dredged his mind and came up with nothing.

He allowed himself to be escorted out of the cell, past their anxious friends, out of the cell-block and into another dimly-lit room. It was like the job interview from hell. A long table, behind which sat Councillor Gerentay and next to him a Wraith, his leather apparel not limited to plain black, but with bands and panels of dark, blood-red embossed with patterns in faded silver. His hair was also silver, combed and straightened enough for a hair-care advert. Rodney considered asking him which salon he patronised.

The Wraith sneered and hissed in the traditional manner when Rodney and John were brought to a stumbling halt before him. “Kneel before your betters.”

Rodney hesitated and felt a sharp blow along the backs of his thighs. His legs collapsed and his knees smacked into the floor. He bent forward gasping. John had slumped down beside him.

The Wraith stalked from behind the desk and stood before them, his teeth visible between drawn-back lips, his eyes glowing with the light of fanaticism. “What have you done with the Great Ring?”

Rodney licked his dry lips. John’s head hung down, his body curled over, his legs splayed awkwardly.

The Wraith spoke again, softly and slowly, his words like snakes, probing here and there in Rodney’s mind, searching for any small weakness. “What have you done with the Great Ring?”

Typical; a Wraith with a queen’s ability to probe minds. Rodney thought briefly about Vulcan mind melds and then, determinedly, about food. He was hungry and it was easy to conjure up images of the perfect day’s meals, beginning with coffee when he woke and working his way through a full complement of meals and snacks.

“This one’s mind is full of trivialities!”

Councillor Gerentay spoke. “He is a renowned scientist, Farseer. I am quite sure that it was he who corrupted the Gate controls. Push harder.”

The probing resumed and Rodney found his thoughts flitting from his grasp, each with a little wrenching jab of pain. Morla appeared in his mind’s eye and though he pushed her away she was suddenly there, in sharp focus, as he’d first seen her on the stagecoach from Teller’s Gap, her basket with its jar of pickled morlas in her lap, her hand wandering mischievously over his thigh. He mustn’t think about Morla and where she was right now, or where he hoped she was. He tore his mind away and heard a groan coming from his own mouth.

The pushing, questing presence withdrew.

“There is something there, but I cannot reach it. His mind is strong.”

“Try the other one. He appears to be sick.”

“No!” Rodney cried out and launched himself at the tall Wraith. Then he was flying across the room to slam into a wall and land, winded and in pain, as the leather-clad figure loomed over John.

oOo

She was here, she was here, Lara was here, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do to save her or to save himself or Rodney or Ferdan or Beddows or any of the other prisoners. He had known she was crying as he had gazed at her across the gap between their cells; when all he could do was look, his eyes drinking in the sight of her, straining through the dim light to make out her soft brown eyes, the familiar curve of her cheek, and missing the upward curve of her lips which were compressed tight with fear and grief.

He filled his mind with her now as the Wraith, Farseer, grasped a handful of his hair and tipped his head back so that he had to look up at the grey-green skin tattooed with vertical slashes down one side of his face. The Agent’s face had been obscured by the vertical slashes of the jail cell bars, far back in Gulderren. And John had sold his bracelet, his mother’s precious bracelet, and they had lost the money for it, so that it had been sacrificed in vain. Had all his sacrifices been in vain? Would more people have lived than died if he had never come to this galaxy, or even if he’d gone into business with his father and never joined the Airforce? He could have given the bracelet to Lara.

The grip on his hair released and his head fell forward.

“This one’s mind is clouded by fever!”

“Feed on him and the other will yield his secrets.”

“No!” Rodney’s terrified, horrified yell penetrated John’s wandering thoughts and he sat up and forced himself to focus. His leg was burning, burning through flesh and into bone, so that he wanted to scream with the agony of it.

“Tell us what you have done and no harm will come to Colonel Sheppard,” said Gerentay.

John looked up, over the top of the desk. Gerentay’s hands were loosely clasped before him, his eyes heavy-lidded as if this were a particularly tedious interrogation.

“Okay, I admit it, I messed with the Gate. I was trying to break it, so you couldn’t send any slaves through or contact anyone off-world.”

“Lies,” Gerentay flicked a finger in dismissal.

Farseer gripped the front of John’s shirt and hauled him easily upright.

“I’m not lying!”

“Then why did you return to the slave cells and not run?” demanded the Councillor. “How were you planning to return to Atlantis?”

Rodney was struggling in the grasp of a drone, the soldier's arm around his throat, his chin tipped high to avoid suffocating. “Okay, okay, I tried, but it didn’t work, so we thought we’d go through with the slaves and escape from wherever they were being sent.”

“Except they weren’t sent there! Where did they go? What address did you divert them to? Tell me or your friend dies!”

The Wraith forced John down onto the desk and tore away the front of his shirt. John looked up into the yellow-green eyes and braced himself as the feeding hand was drawn back, its slit opening wide, its barbed tongue revealed, ready to dig into his flesh and draw out his soul.

“I’m telling the truth! It’s the truth! We didn’t know what else to do!”

“Feed. What are you waiting for?” Gerentay urged.

“I do not act on your command, human,” spat Farseer.

But the feeding hand slammed into John’s chest, the claw-like nails bit deep and the barb plunged into the soft space below his sternum. John screamed and his body convulsed with anguish and terror.

“No! Leave him alone!”

The Wraith would rip and tear and slash at his soul. His life would flood out in a rush of agony until the last, stuttering drops drained from his flaking, cracked corpse. The barb moved, catching on the skin of John's chest. But then the hand withdrew. Surely not at Rodney’s urging?

“Why are you stopping? This coward won’t stand by and watch his friend die! We need to know what he knows!”

Farseer released his grasp on John’s shirt and John couldn’t stop himself slithering to the ground and landing in a crumpled, bleeding heap. Above him the Wraith rounded on the human.

“I have told you I do not act on your command! And it is not for me to taste of these two most cursed of the Atlanteans. My honoured Queen Silverweb will take the lives of both of these men as weregild for those many of her kin that have died by their hands. _She_ will taste of their fear and horror and let it be known throughout her realm that _she_ was the one to snatch the final breaths from their shrivelled husks.”

“And so it will make no difference if you take some years from this man now!”

“In his condition, he would not survive a feeding and my queen would be angry that his life did not fail in order to strengthen _her_. I will not feed!”

“You -”

“Do not say that which you will regret, human.” Farseer loomed over John’s body as he bent over the table toward Gerentay. His voice lowered threateningly. “We do not need you to control this world.”

“Oh, well,” the Councillor blustered. “It was only a suggestion. I meant no offence. And there is another avenue to explore anyway.”

The Wraith straightened up and turned to regard Rodney. “Yes. This one had help to enter the citadel.”

“He did. And out of the dissenting faction, I can easily guess who would provide such aid.”

oOo

They had been returned to their cell. Rodney had helped John, who could barely stand unaided, even though his own hurts made breathing painful, and taking John’s weight was torture. Rodney suspected he had cracked some ribs when the Wraith had thrown him across the room.

“What did they do to you?” Lara’s voice came from the next cell.

“Not as much as they coulda done,” John muttered. He lay full-length and let his head fall on his outstretched arm.

Rodney groaned. Should he remain lying on the floor, or would a more upright position hurt less? He pushed himself up, bright pain stabbing at his chest and felt marginally better with his back supported by the cell bars.

“Are you guys okay?” Ferdan called.

“We’re good.” John’s weakened rasp wasn’t convincing.

“I think I have some broken ribs and Sheppard’s got a few cuts on his chest, but other than that we’re in the same ready-for-anything condition as before.”

“Oh, no!” Lara’s voice trembled. “The Wraith didn’t -”

“No.” Rodney breathed carefully, his heart speeding up at the thought of his friend in Farseer’s grip. “No, he didn’t.”

Were his ribs broken or just cracked? Ribs were always agonising, even when they were just bruised. Was his breath rasping? Could he feel the burble of liquid filling his lungs?

“You want me to check, Rodney?”

“Check what?”

“Your ribs.”

“Oh. No, I’m sure they’re fine. You wouldn’t be able to tell anyways.”

“Prob’ly would.”

“There’s nothing we can do even if they are broken.”

“Guess not.”

In and out, his breath continued to flow. Maybe it would be fine. “Are you okay? John?”

“Mm, kinda cold.”

Rodney could hear his friend’s teeth chattering. “Come here.”

“I’ll hurt your ribs if I lean against you.”

“Come here, Sheppard.” John dragged himself close to Rodney, his body shuddering as if he were outside in the snow. “Lie down.” His friend’s head flopped heavily into his lap. Rodney rested his hand on John’s shoulder; his skin was burning.

“’m sorry,” muttered John. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Stop it, Sheppard. What do you have to be sorry for?”

“Dunno. Just feels right to say it. Sorry, Rodney.”

“It’s not your fault, John. None of it’s your fault.”

John’s shoulder shook with a deep sigh. “Still sorry.”

Rodney’s hand squeezed. “It’s okay.” His ribs hurt and he was so hungry that the small world of their cell was fading into unreality. “It’ll be okay, Sheppard, it will.”

His thoughts drifted. 

Then he jerked awake at the creak and scrape of the cell block door. Voices penetrated his fogged mind; the rough urgings of the guards, the repressed anger of a man, the pleading note of a woman's voice and the soft, terrified whimper of a small child.

_No. No, no, no._ He knew who was coming; who had been brought here as an example to the other ruling clans, to stand on the unforgiving expanse of marble and be taken by the culling beams. He didn’t need to see them hustled roughly past, bound for the next cell, their rich clothes incongruous in this place of darkness and dread.

The cell opened, they were pushed in and the guards departed.

The mother held her weeping child. The man approached the bars and looked down at Rodney and John. His mouth opened and closed and the dim light glinted on moisture in his eyes.

“All -” He broke off and swallowed. “All is lost,” said Lorentik Hefferen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking pretty bleak. But Morla and Venna got through - surely they’ll alert Atlantis and rescue will be on its way?
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please leave kudos if you haven't already, and comments are very welcome!


	18. Chapter 18

The cold wind blew across the Gate platform, raising flurries of fallen snow into dancing spirals which collapsed and died between the freezing gusts. The sky was white; a bone-white blankness of high cloud that emptied the world of colour except for the black, silhouetted circle of the Gate, the Ring of the Ancestors, that hole in reality that was equally capable of bringing death or life and, soon now, would bring the oblivion of the silver rays when the queen’s darts spewed forth from that great round maw.

Gerentay did not approach. He stood at one edge of the platform, next to the tall figure of Farseer, flanked by a contingent of drones. Had he come within any remote possibility of contact, John would have struggled not to attack the man, even with little hope of reaching him before he was struck down or his legs gave out.

John shivered. He made no attempt to draw the shreds of his shirt closer around him. It would make no difference. Even with Lara pressed close to one side and Rodney to the other he couldn’t feel their warmth. But he felt their support, knew their thoughts were united with his own; their fear, their horror and their disbelief that this was the moment, here and now, that they stood, exposed to the sky, exposed to the view of the great judging eye of the Gate. 

An audience had been gathered to witness the ceremonial cull. They could not be seen, but a low murmuring came from the surrounding buildings that enclosed the inner sanctum, their grey forbidding walls stepping up, rank upon rank, to create an arena in which the darts could emerge and fly into the sky and then stoop like birds of prey down upon their victims.

“I never did like being the centre of attention,” said Rodney.

“Yes you did.”

“Okay, yes, maybe I did. But only for the astonishing brilliance of my work. Not for this.”

Behind John, Greyla sobbed and her mother tried to comfort her. Ferdan stopped alongside his mother and linked his arm into hers, echoing the chain that linked their ankles. Beddows stood next to Ferdan, his shoulders drooping, his eyes blank with incomprehension. And the other prisoners, nameless ghosts with dragging feet and grey faces, stopped where their chains would allow, the heavy links scraping over the smooth marble.

A bolt from a Wraith stunner whined straight up into the air, and the murmuring crowd fell silent.

“Hear ye, people of Teksa’corani!” Gerentay’s voice boomed forth, amplified by some unseen system. “Hear ye, and let my words blow throughout this world as the wind takes them, so that all the people of Fencoranindon might learn what comes to those who do not obey the great law of our protectors, the Wraith!”

One of the other prisoners spat noisily. John would have joined them if his mouth hadn’t been so dry.

“Let all bear witness as these criminals are taken. Let their culling stand as warning to all who would oppose the Wraith!”

“Or you, you power-crazed lunatic,” muttered Rodney.

“Theft and murder, blackmail and depravity are their crimes, but above all - treason! Treason against the state and against our protectors!”

“Pompous ass.”

The wind blew harder, scouring the snow from the platform, piercing John’s skin with savage stabs of cold.

“They’ll come, won’t they?” Lara turned her face to his, her white face, so cold that the words slurred between frozen lips. “Atlantis will come?”

“And now - let the great Gate open! And thus be their crimes judged and thus be they punished!” roared Councillor Gerentay.

The Gate sprang to life.

John pulled Lara closer to him and her arm wrapped around him, tightening as he pressed his frozen lips to hers. She shuddered with cold and fear, and her heart fluttered wildly against his chest. 

Then she broke the kiss. “I love you, John Sheppard.” A single tear crept from the corner of her eye and streaked slowly toward her ear and then hid behind the line of her jaw.

“Love you too.”

Their lips met again and John closed his eyes so that he didn’t see the first dart come through the Gate.

A deafening whine shot past and up, retreating into silence. Then another and another followed it through the Gate.

“They’ve gone,” said Ferdan. “Where’ve they gone?”

John opened his eyes. 

Hefferen stood next to Rodney, Greyla in his arms, his wife by his side, looking up. Some of their fellow prisoners were also searching the skies, others gazed apathetically at their feet, and some had fallen to the ground, their lips moving in prayer.

“They’ll be back,” said Rodney, bleakly.

“Daddy, take me home! Please!”

“Ssh, now, little one.”

“No! I wanna go home!”

“There they are.” Rodney’s face was grey, one arm clasped about his ribs, the other pointing up into the white nothingness.

Spots danced before John’s eyes. The spots grew and then the distant, high-pitched buzz increased to that familiar strident scream. What he’d give to be up there, in a jumper, or a dart, or even a Black Hawk; shooting down his enemies, or breaking through the high cloud and out into the sunlight and then away, bursting, smashing through the atmosphere, escaping into the freedom of space to seek a different sun on a different planet.

The spots resolved themselves into darts. They were coming, soon to hurtle down and extend their beams like claws, to grasp and snatch away the lives that waited, shivering on this cold, marble butcher’s block.

“John.” The word was no longer a plea for rescue, but just his name.

He tore his eyes away from the sky and looked at the woman he held, who held him in return. “Lara.” She buried her head on his shoulder and he turned his face into her hair where yet lingered the scent of warm hearths and gun oil and acceptance.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/51019059488/in/dateposted-public/)

There was still hope; hope that rescue would come, that Morla and Venna had told their tale and that even now the forces of Atlantis were coming. Or, if he and Rodney and Morla and all the others were taken by the culling beam, they could fight and hope to break free from the Wraith. He and Rodney had done it before; they’d do it again. They would fight. And John knew that even when others’ strength failed, even when his own strength failed, he would not stop fighting, though victory was impossible. He would fight for his friends and for innocent strangers, and he would fight for the woman he loved.

oOo

Rodney’s head tipped back, his body arched, and he gritted his teeth against the pain in his ribs. His vision blurred; he couldn’t tell which of the black spots were darts and which a product of fear and hunger. Then the real ones dived, and all three plummeted, shrieking, toward the platform. Rodney closed his eyes and clenched his fists, but the shriek retreated once more and he looked up to see the darts streaking away over the buildings of the citadel and arcing up into the sky once more.

“Oh for God’s sake, just get on with it! What the hell are they playing at?”

He glanced sideways at John, but his friend’s eyes were closed, his arms around Lara. Rodney’s lips twitched. Trust Sheppard to choose exactly the wrong time and place to find love. “What’s that one doing? Are they turning?”

The dots grew, one larger and two smaller. 

Morla had gone through the Gate. But maybe the grunts weren’t there. Maybe she and Venna and the freed slaves were stranded on a deserted alpha site together with those scaly penguins.

There was a flash. A glint of sunlight on metal? No, the high layer of white cloud was complete. It came again.

“Is that -?”

“They’re firing! Those two are shooting the other! Sheppard, look!”

The dart under attack pulled up, turning a swift one-eighty to head back toward the cloud cover. The others followed.

“Who is it? Is it one of ours?” Rodney squinted as the darts dived in and out of the cloud.

“I don’t know.”

“There must be some way to tell. Don’t different pilots have different styles? You can tell, can’t you Sheppard?”

“I don’t know, Rodney!”

The guards and drones lining the edge of the platform shuffled uneasily. Gerentay and Farseer appeared to be arguing, then Farseer stalked across the platform, heading for the octagonal tower at the far end.

“Someone’s in for a whole world of trouble,” said Rodney, hope rising in his chest. “Or maybe that’s just us.” Gerentay was marching toward them, his face contorted with rage.

John’s lower lip was tight between his teeth, the white light reflecting off the sweat on his face as he watched the sky. Lara’s eyes were all for John.

“Sheppard!” 

The Councillor was fumbling at his rich robes. He drew something out that flashed in the light from the event horizon.

“Boom!” remarked Beddows.

Greyla cheered.

One of the darts had burst apart in a fireball and a moment later the sound reached the watchers below.

“Sheppard, he’s got a knife!” The darts forgotten, Rodney backed away from the approaching Councillor.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” Gerentay shrieked. “What have you done? I’ll kill you both!” He lunged forward, striking out with his weapon.

Flashes of his combat lessons with Ronon and Teyla burst into Rodney’s mind. What did you do against a madman with a knife? His ribs screamed with pain and the edge of his vision was fading out, but he flung up his arm as the blade plunged toward him.

The knife-point grazed his forearm, but then stopped and Rodney heard John swearing as he crushed Gerentay’s wrist with both hands. The knife clattered to the ground. The Councillor closed his other hand into a fist and struck, but Lara intercepted the blow, twisting Gerentay’s arm up behind his back. Rodney kicked out at the man’s shins.

Stunners whined from the flanking drones and several prisoners fell. Then there was a furious hiss and Gerentay was wrenched away from their grip. Farseer held the Councillor up by the front of his robes, the Wraith’s lips drawn back and his teeth exposed in a hideous grimace.

“You go too far, human!” snarled the Wraith. “These lives are meat for my Queen’s feasting, not for your crude weapons.”

“Let me go!” Gerentay’s feet kicked furiously, but the tall Wraith held him off the ground. “I will not stand for such treatment!”

The Wraith laughed, drew back his hand and then slammed it into Gerentay’s chest. 

The Councillor screamed in horror and pain. “No! Please! No!” But his cries faded quickly and were drowned by Farseer’s drawn-out gasp of ecstasy. 

Then the ‘crump’ of a distant explosion reached their ears.

Beddows chuckled.

The dried-up husk of Senior Councillor Gerentay fell to the ground, the rich, red fabric of his robes pooling like blood about him.

Farseer stepped back, drawing his stunner and swinging it in a wide arc. “Your doom approaches,” he sneered.

The flanking guards and drones trained their stunners steadily on the prisoners, confining them to their flat, white scaffold. The Wraith leader backed further away.

A lone dart appeared, streaking out of the cloud. It grew rapidly, its rending, shredding whine growing also, its course unwavering.

Farseer stumbled over a chain and fell against the hulking form of Beddows. The drones fired and more prisoners fell amongst the close-packed crowd. But the huge outlaw plucked the stunner out of Farseer’s hand and threw it away. Then he curled one muscled arm around the struggling Wraith’s neck, and the other around his face and with a sharp, twisting motion the struggles ceased.

Rodney’s mouth fell open, the freezing air turning his hot breath to smoke.

“Stay where you are!” One of the human guards rallied his troops. Stunners whined and more prisoners fell, the rest huddling toward the centre of the platform.

Gerentay was gone and Farseer, but they were chained together, with no other escape but the culling beam. Rodney looked at John and saw hard, tight determination in his friend’s shadowed eyes and his flattened mouth.

The dart fell and silver light speared out of its belly, reaching toward the prisoners like a greedy net.

The muscles at the back of Rodney’s neck tensed, tipping up his chin, his own mouth hardening into a grim line. He nodded, a sharp, nervous jerk. John nodded in return. All was said; all acknowledgement of friendship and the past - the hardships and the laughter, the danger and the triumph - all was said that needed to be said, whether in their final moments before a brief, harsh battle with foes much stronger than themselves, or, in their final moments before the hoped-for, longed-for, desperately needed rescue.

The Hefferens wrapped themselves around each other. Lara held out a hand and Ferdan took it, his other hand grasping Beddows’. And though John held Lara tight in one arm, he drew his other hand free and Rodney clasped it gratefully. A choke of hysterical laughter escaped his lips. “All for one,” he whispered.

The net descended and they were engulfed.

oOo

Noise and confusion penetrated John’s dark world and he didn’t understand where he was and couldn’t remember what had happened. His head twitched toward cries of distress mixed with shouted orders and his senses spun - was he moving?

There had been stark white and bitter cold and fear, but now it was dark and he was warm. In fact he was hot; too hot and the fear remained.

Then his eyes opened and there was blackness above, lit only by flickering blue light, and a grey, alien face floated above him.

“No!” John yelled and struggled wildly but he couldn’t move. His limbs were restrained. It was too late. He was already bound and cocooned ready for feeding; he’d missed his chance, his one chance to save his friends, to save Lara. His heart pounded in flurrying panic and he strained against his bonds. “No! Rodney! Lara!” He yelled again and again, but the grey face remained and something prodded his leg; he gave a wrenching groan of pain.

“Get out of my way, you great clumsy creature!”

“What’s wrong? Why is he yelling?”

“John?”

The grey face disappeared with a squawk and was replaced by the owners of the three voices. John’s heaving breaths slowed.

“Carson?” His voice rasped in his dry throat.

“Yes Sheppard, Carson’s here and we’re at the alpha site and we’re safe,” said Rodney. “I knew we shouldn’t have left him alone,” he added. “Especially not with those penguin-things sticking their beaks in where they’re not wanted.”

A hard lip was held to John’s mouth and his head was lifted. He opened his mouth and cold water trickled in.

“The other prisoners were panicking, Rodney. I needed you and Mrs Kennet to calm them down.” Carson’s voice floated high above. Who was helping him drink?

“Call me Lara, please.”

John felt a cool hand on his brow and Lara’s concerned eyes hovered close to his. She was there, at his side and they were on the alpha site. “Why can’t I move?” he mumbled. The hand was removed but then he felt fingers mesh with his own in steadying comfort.

“Because we’d just got you on a stretcher all ready to go back through the Gate when some of these poor souls got a bit difficult to handle.”

“Yes and Carson needed my people skills to pacify the rabble.”

“Rodney, it can be very disorienting, when you’ve been held in Wraith storage, as well you know.” 

John felt a tug in his arm as Carson checked a cannula. “’m I going home?”

“Aye, lad, time to go home.”

A quick-fire snapping was followed by Rodney’s peremptory demand. “You and you! Yes, Privates Grin and Grunt, you! Take the Colonel through the Gate, quick sharp!”

“Rodney, that’s enough.”

John felt himself lifted up.

“What? I have gallons of pent-up adrenaline to work off, I’m chock full of painkillers, and that energy drink you gave me was packed with enough sugar to send me into orbit!”

The stretcher began to move and the rippling blue-white light increased. There were questions John should be asking, facts he should be demanding; but for now, all that mattered was Lara’s hand in his. Because somehow they were safe and just the other side of the shining pool, Atlantis was waiting.

oOo

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190544196@N08/51019059528/in/dateposted-public/)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, thought Rodney as he surveyed the morning-lit infirmary, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, as well as intergalactic prestige, must be in want of a wife. Or significant other, he amended thoughtfully. It wasn’t, however, a truth that had seemed fully relevant, or frankly, that had even occurred to him up until now, and he still wasn’t sure what the revelation meant for his future.

The previous night, he had come through the Gate, along with all of the other ex-prisoners. In fact, he had led them, like Moses leading his people to the promised land. For some reason they had looked to him for authority, perhaps because he was the only recognisable face who seemed to know what the hell was going on.

Even Rodney, with his history and knowledge of being beamed up and stored and then beamed down again in unlikely locations and circumstances, had to admit to momentary confusion. The flat, terrifying whiteness of the Teksa’corani Gate platform had instantaneously become dark unfamiliarity, and the approaching phalanx of harshly crying grey shapes had drawn screams of terror from the traumatised crowd. John had collapsed next to him and Rodney, too, had fallen to his knees, his consciousness dwindling to a narrow window of weakness and pain.

But then Carson had been there; blessed Carson with his painkillers and energy drinks, and they weren’t prisoners on a Wraith ship or a hellish slave camp, they were on the alpha site with its marauding groups of over-friendly scaly penguin-creatures.

And then Rodney had done his Exodus act and led the masses through the Gate and, following that much longed-for brief swoop of vertigo, he was home. Atlantis had surrounded him with a faint, dignified hum and Morla had surrounded him with a crushing, undignified hug and had been confused when he’d pushed her off, not realising that she was hurting his ribs. She had, however, correctly interpreted his pain/adrenaline/sugar-fuelled rantings and resumed the embrace in a more restrained fashion.

Sitting in his infirmary bed, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his breakfast, Rodney brushed two fingertips across the front of his throat; it ached faintly in a ghost of the intense, gripping knot that had formed when he’d stood in the Gateroom with Morla. Warm moisture had trickled down his still-cold cheeks. He knew his arms had trembled around her. The sensation of rightness, of balance, of home had been overwhelming, but he wasn’t sure what proportion of that sensation could be assigned to his return to Atlantis, what might be ascribed to the fact that he was, at last, cocooned and protected by friendly faces after so long on a dangerous world, and what he should put down to his affection for this particular woman, who held him in a grateful embrace and whose heartfelt thanks for his safety and her own, tumbled around his overloaded senses. There had been no sign of Jennifer.

He’d been bundled him onto a gurney and wheeled away and drips and drugs and dreams had been his lot until he’d woken, ravenously hungry, and Morla had been there again, her manner more guarded, but her offer of fetching a large tray of breakfast fortunately genuine.

She returned, her arms gratifyingly straining under their load.

“I hope this is enough,” she said, setting the tray down on the roll-away table.

There was a lot, but Rodney didn’t want to commit himself, just in case more was needed. “Well, let’s see, shall we? Ow.” He’d leant forward too eagerly and his ribs were equally eager to remind him of their status as cracked.

“Don’t. Here.” Morla pressed the button to raise the back of the bed. “Better?”

“Yes, thanks.” Oatmeal, pancakes, bacon, bread rolls and assorted pastry items, fruit and a glass of juice. “That’s not -”

“No. I checked. No citrus.”

“Oh, you remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. I always remember stuff.”

“Do you?” Rodney’s bandaged fingers fumbled awkwardly with his spoon. His hunger was urgent enough to postpone the delights of bacon in favour of the more immediately filling oatmeal. “Mm. Maple syrup,” he said, when he’d swallowed the first mouthful. He devoured several in quick succession, taking the sharp edge off his appetite. “You memorised Atlantis’ Gate address didn’t you?”

“Yes. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. We went through the Gate and there were these big scaly birds and nobody else. I waited for the Gate to cut out and then dialled Atlantis, let it cut out again, and just kept dialling again and again. Then this wheeled thing came through and there was a voice and I spoke to it. And after that the soldiers came through.”

“How did it work out, though? Who was in the dart? How were we rescued in the very nickiest nick of time?”

“I don’t know,” said Morla. “Stuff just happened around me. Nobody’s had a lot of time to talk and explain things.”

“Hm, well they’d better take some time to explain them to me in the very immediate future.” He spooned in some more oatmeal and then looked up as brisk footsteps approached.

“Oh. Is he still asleep?”

Lara was clad in the same strange assortment of clothes that Morla was wearing - a mixture of various Atlantis uniforms and standard-issue black boots. Rodney glanced across at the silent form in the bed opposite, shaded from the daylight by the partially drawn privacy curtains.

“Mm.” Rodney swallowed his mouthful. “Carson didn’t finish dealing with his leg til late last night. He’ll be out for a while.”

“Huh?”

“Or not.”

“Wha? Whassup?” The blanket-covered form shifted and winced.

Lara crossed the room and took John’s hand in hers. “You’re safe, John. Go back to sleep.”

“Huh? Yeah, ’kay.” The restless movements stilled and there was a soft snore.

“Oh. Well, I’ve never known him do that before,” said Rodney. “If Sheppard’s awake, he’s up and out of the infirmary as fast as his legs can carry him, or even if they can’t. Or at least he’s demanding information. Speaking of which. Hey, you!”

The nurse checking John’s chart glared at Rodney repressively. “It’s Nurse Williams.”

“Okay, yes, Nurse Whatever. Where is everyone? Where’s Carson? And Jennifer? And Ronon and Teyla? What’s happening? Information, data!” He snapped his fingers. “Sometime today would be good!”

The nurse carried on with her observations calmly. John mumbled unintelligibly as she stuck the thermometer in his ear. “Dr Beckett is off-world. I believe Specialist Dex is with him. Miss Emmagan and Dr Keller went to Earth several weeks ago to help with the declassification."  
She paused, looked uncertainly at Rodney and added, “Major Lorne went too.”

“What? Well who is here that knows what’s going on?”

The nurse moved to the next patient, a former political prisoner or freed slave. “Mr Woolsey is on Atlantis, but I believe he’s extremely busy.”

“Yes, yes, I remember him being in the Gateroom last night.” It all seemed very hazy. “I think.”

“Is that the bald, twitchy man with glasses?” asked Morla.

“Yes,” said Rodney. “But he’s actually more impressive than he looks, as leaders go.”

“Oh, I know that.” Morla tore off a piece of Rodney’s bread roll and began to nibble it, which he supposed he’d have to forgive because it had been left sadly undefended. “You’ve got to have guts to speak to a Wraith like that.”

“What? What Wraith? Like what?” Rodney ripped open the remains of the roll and stuffed the bacon inside.

Morla shrugged. “Todd? Strange name for a Wraith. All I know is what I saw. The soldiers brought us through the Gate and then there were more soldiers and a thing like a giant tube floated down from the ceiling and there were Wraith everywhere, and I told them where you and John had been and that stuff with the Coalition and that nasty Councillor.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose one has to assume everything’s on the way to being sorted out then; in default of any actual hard facts, that is.” He humphed and chewed angrily through the bread roll. “I just can’t help thinking… oh, never mind.”

“Rodney?”

“Look, I just hope we haven’t made things worse, that’s all. We do that. _I_ do that. Sometimes. Make things worse, when I was just trying to help or just trying not to die or whatever.”

Morla tucked a hand in his. “You’re very brave and you do your best.”

“I try. Sometimes I’m brave. I think.”

“When it counts.”

“Hmm.” He sipped the fruit juice. Lara was still holding John’s hand and watching him with every appearance of what Rodney supposed was devotion. Sheppard certainly seemed at ease with her, if the snoring was anything to go by, although perhaps that was due more to the drugs. 

Rodney glanced sideways at Morla, but she wasn’t looking at him. He watched as she experimentally unwound the first layer of his croissant. Jennifer was on Earth and Morla was here. Did that make his decision easy? Was it as simple as that? No. No, it wasn’t simple at all and he definitely needed more data. And surely tongues had begun to wag after he had been engulfed in a non-Jennifer feminine embrace slap bang in the middle of the Gateroom last night. But, he hoped, any displays of unguarded emotion could be put down to the drama of the moment, couldn’t they?

Of one thing, however, Rodney was certain. No matter what human relationships he decided to follow up in the future, there was one significant other to whom he would remain forever bound: Atlantis. 

His time away from the city had taught him that it was this place that he regarded as home. He didn’t want or need to create a cosy space on Earth and fill it with the conventional trappings of home life. He had what he wanted here - the things that made him happy. Yes, maybe it would be nice to go to Earth and lord it over his astonished colleagues for a while. But recognition wasn’t what kept him going; it never had been and it never would be. He was like Sheppard in that respect; the thrill of the hunt, the tantalising taste of the unknown, the never-ending variety of challenges that being on Atlantis provided. That was, to Rodney, the purpose of his life; to explore, to strive, to reach further and further and increase his understanding of the universe and to learn to manipulate it to his own ends.

He realised his thoughts had led him to the verge of power-crazed evil overlord territory. His lips twitched. Sheppard would, no doubt, give him a suitable super-villain name.

Morla had unwound the whole croissant and appeared to be testing its tensile strength. Rodney picked up the pain au chocolat and unfolded it down the centre line to reveal how the chocolate was nestled, in two lines, within.

“Do you eat these all the time?” asked Morla.

He shrugged. “Not as often as I'd like.”

Perhaps Atlantis and the Pegasus Galaxy were his home, his _raison d’être_ , but balance was needed too; something or someone to bring him, if not down to Earth, then at least to the surface of one planet or another. Would it be Morla? Would it be Jennifer? Rodney didn't know.

“Mm," said Morla, licking her fingers. "Buttery.” The croissant disintegrated and flakes of pastry scattered all over the floor.

oOo

“Are you sure you’re up to this, Colonel?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” John raised his eyebrows innocently, ignoring his lightheadedness as he pressed the button to bring the back of his bed a little more upright.

“Yes, come on, we need to know what’s going on and if Sheppard falls asleep I can tell him later.” Rodney sat in a chair at the foot of John’s bed, dressed in actual, normal walking-out-of-the-infirmary clothes. He wouldn’t get further than his room, though, John thought. Not judging by the way he was perching gingerly on the edge of his seat.

Richard Woolsey also sat in an uncomfortable plastic infirmary chair, as did Lara and Morla. But what had happened to the Hefferens? And Venna? And the armoury had better be well guarded or Beddows would be in amongst the C4.

Woolsey adjusted his glasses and then linked his fingers, his thumbs tapping together. “When you disappeared, of course we searched the area fully and questioned everyone in attendance at the meeting.”

“Bet you didn’t find anything,” said Rodney.

“No. And the atmosphere of suspicion led to several unpleasant scenes between the remaining ambassadors.”

“Hmph. Dissension. Just what Gerentay was after.”

“Indeed. Our enquiries proceeded, fruitlessly. And then Todd contacted me with information about a Wraith queen who had assembled a fleet of queenless hives under her banner and had begun culling undefended worlds.”

“Let me guess. Queen Silverweb?” John’s voice caught in his throat. Lara passed him a cup of water which he sipped while he listened to the expedition leader.

“Precisely. And of course if it would mean an end to the Wraith’s domination of this galaxy, I agreed to lend our aid in opposing this new faction; but Todd lacked concrete intelligence on the whereabouts of Queen Silverweb’s fleet or where her next attack might take place, and in the meantime, there was increasing pressure from Earth over the imminent declassification of the Stargate project.”

“Couldn’t that wait?” John asked.

“No. Information had been leaked and the media were making wildly exaggerated guesses which were leading to panic among the general population.”

“They’d have to be pretty wild to beat the truth.”

“Hm. Yes, they were.” Woolsey took out a handkerchief and began to polish his already clean glasses. “In the absence of your good selves, we agreed that Teyla should go, along with Dr Keller and Major Lorne.”

“So, who’s been taking up the slack with my guys? Teldy?”

“Yes. Major Teldy stepped into the breech and has kept everything running, I’m sure to your satisfaction.”

“And of course Carson couldn’t go to Earth,” said Rodney. “Not with his status as officially dead and buried and his essential work administering the retrovirus to our Wraithy friends.”

“No. Of course not.”

“Where is Carson?”

“Dr Beckett is on Fencoranindon. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Woolsey replaced his glasses, folded his handkerchief neatly and put it back in his pocket. “Declassification proceeded, relatively smoothly from what I hear, and then Todd returned to Atlantis having made a discovery; a planet, under Silverweb’s control, with which she was in regular contact.”

“Fencorani,” said Lara.

“Indeed. However, we were still unable to discover the whereabouts of the Queen’s fleet and it was decided that a decisive strike against the heart of her power would be necessary to ensure her -”

“Total annihilation,” interrupted Rodney.

“Quite so,” Woolsey agreed.

“How did you track her down?” John eased his head back on the pillow. A more concise explanation would have been nice. Just a couple of short sentences, with words of no more than two syllables. A pain was developing like a rod linking his temples.

“Ah, well. Just, let me see... yes, three days ago, Todd received some vital intelligence from an anonymous source, giving us the location of Queen Silverweb’s forces.”

“Anonymous?” Rodney’s arms were shielding his ribs, but his face reflected his understanding and he looked at John. “That teen-Wraith maybe? The Wraith that dumped us on that planet,” Rodney told Woolsey. “He fancied himself as some kind of interplanetary man of mystery.”

“Coulda just brought us home,” said John. He closed his eyes.

“Colonel Sheppard? We could resume later if you’re feeling unwell.”

“No!” said Rodney. “You can’t stop now.”

“It’s okay.” John opened his eyes. He’d begun to slide down the bed and he eased himself up, wincing as his leg twinged.

“Shall I get a nurse?” Lara asked.

“No. Thanks. Carry on,” he said to Woolsey. “You sent in a strike team.”

“We joined forces with Todd, but shortly before the attack was due to take place the Gate activated from the alpha site.”

“That was me!” said Morla.

“It was, and so we learned more about the situation on your planet.”

“It would have been nice if you’d come and got us straight away,” said Rodney. “Those cells weren’t the cheeriest places. And we could’ve done without the torture session.”

“Ah, yes, I am sorry you had to go through that. But Todd and I agreed that the problem was best tackled at its source.”

“I would’ve done the same,” said John. “But I wouldn’t have let any darts get through the Gate.”

“That was unavoidable,” said Woolsey. “And we were fortunate to pick them up at all. As they attacked, Todd received a strong sense of Queen Silverweb’s anticipation of er…”

“Let me guess - sucking the life out of us?” suggested Rodney.

“Precisely,” said Woolsey. “He detected four darts heading for the space gate and gave chase.”

“Four?”

“Yes. I believe he disposed of two before they reached the Gate.”

“Then he followed the others through and blew them away.” John closed his eyes again.

“Well, good old Todd,” said Rodney. “But there’s still a few things I want to -”

“What’s going on here, then?” Carson’s voice accompanied the heavy-booted tramp of multiple arrivals. “Yes, put that one in there and the others in the next bay.” Carson directed his medical team, who clustered around a train of gurneys. Although closely attentive to their charges, their movements were unhurried and there were no sharp, urgent commands, but Carson’s face was gaunt and unshaven. “I gave orders that the Colonel wasn’t to be disturbed. And what are you doing out of bed, Rodney?”

“Oh, well, I thought -”

“Back in. Now! I’ll be the judge of whether you’re ready to leave.”

“C’mon, Carson.”

“And as for you, Colonel!” The doctor shot John a narrow-eyed, assessing glance, as he ushered Rodney back to his bed. “You look like you’re due more painkillers, and if you’re not still running a temperature, I’m a Wraith queen!”

Woolsey stood up. “Perhaps I was a little precipitate in informing Colonel Sheppard and Dr McKay of the events while they were away.”

“Aye, you’re damn right you were precipitate!” Carson broke off and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Sorry! I’m sorry, Mr Woolsey. That was uncalled for. I’ve got the devil of a headache. That bloody place is like my old Granny’s Jack Russell terrier, snapping and yapping inside my head. I don’t know!” He rubbed his eyes again.

“Siberian husky," said John.

"Ha!" Rodney snapped his fingers. "That's why I'm a cat person. Calm, dignified, greets you with a casual purr even after ten thousand years. Atlantis is a cat!"

"Yeah, sure McKay. Whatever. What happened at the citadel? Did we lose anyone?" John couldn’t see whether the figures on the gurneys were his men or women.

“Ah, perhaps, as the doctor says, we should let you rest, Colonel.” Woolsey pushed back his chair and stood up.

“Tell me.” Pain was pounding begin John’s eyes, but he directed his lowered brows at Carson, daring him to withhold the information.

"We didn't lose anyone, Colonel. Just minor injuries." John continued to regard him stonily until Carson rolled his eyes. “Go on, then. Make it quick.”

“We sent Atlantean and Wraith troops through the Gate," said Woolsey. "In his last report, Todd stated that he’d taken control of the citadel.”

“Who went?” John asked. “Ronon?”

“Yes, Ronon commanded our forces. Some of the more able Fencoranindons went too - Mr Hefferen, Mr Kennet.”

“My Ferdan went to fight?” Lara’s face drained of colour.

“Don’t worry yourself, Lara," Carson reassured her. "He was whole and healthy when I left. And Mr Hefferen was trying to establish some kind of temporary leadership.”

“Was he?” Woolsey’s voice was sharp with interest. He rubbed his hands together. “In that case, I believe my presence may be required.” He departed, hot on the scent of diplomacy.

Satisfied, for now, that the military situation was being managed effectively, John allowed himself to relax. A chill ran through him and he shivered.

“I saw that! Where’s that nurse?”

“Just coming, Dr Beckett!”

Nurse Williams rolled a trolley in John’s direction and he submitted to the usual irritation of observations and then the welcome drift of drugs into his veins.

Lara followed in Carson's wake as he fussed over Rodney. John wondered where Venna was and little Greyla and her mother. And he still hadn't asked about Beddows.

The nurse left him alone. Then the chair at his bedside scraped.

“You don’t have to stay,” John muttered. “I guess you’ll want to go check on Ferdan.”

“Dr Beckett says he’s back and he’s gone to bed. They were fighting a running battle most of the night. I wish he’d told me he was going.”

“No, you don’t. That woulda been worse.”

“Yes. You’re right. At least now I don’t have to worry.”

“And things back home’ll get better.”

“I hope so.” Her eyes were downcast. 

What would happen now? What would Lara do? Go back to the diner in Gulderren? And himself? Would he go back to Earth, become the public figure that the powers-that-be wanted him to be? “I, uh…”

She looked up.

“Um, so, what I wondered was, uh…”

“John?”

The painkillers were dragging him down, into a soft, drifting place. He could just let go. “What you said, back by the Gate… What I said…”

The corners of her mouth curved upward. She stood and leant over and kissed him gently, her lips soft, his dry and cracked.

“I meant it,” she said as she sat down again. “And you did too.”

“Yeah.” John turned his head toward Lara so that he could watch her as he drifted away. “Yeah, I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long, long last our boys are back on Atlantis, where they belong! What a relief! 
> 
> But there is still much to be resolved and many threads to be tied up, so look out for the epilogue on Friday!


End file.
